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| Waves - Photograph by Ray Collins |
I - am - masquerading in a second language
in a
second language
wondering if I can dismantle all this distress
___this big magnanimous painful
sensation
and reassemble it into a ship
built of images and words-
let me call you a night sea, but
unfortunately, not mine
and let me wonder, how could a sane man gaze
upon a sea beautiful as you are
and not fall in love?
let me rewrite myself and (re)translate myself
into a foreign tongue:
to learn how may I
unsee
unlearn
unfeel-
how may I mend the heart the melted [for you]
a sane man gazes upon the sea
and does not reach out to you
occupied by his vulnerabilities
a cardboard man
may lose his fingertips
afraid of drowning, he is an expert in
drowning and losing himself
repeatedly
and he has decided not to repeat that
but how could a sane man
gaze upon the sincerity pouring out of your
voice
and suspends the desire to walk into your
waters
your sincerity accompanies me, a kindful sea
-but "sincerity" cannot capture what
you are,
it's a an incomplete translation of you, can
you see-
I gaze upon you and wonder if my heart could
leak from my fingers
extended
reaching out towards you
my voice is thin and weak
and I -the sane man- listen
attentively
to how keen and warm your voice [is] seems to
be
I decide "nothing to lose here but my
little voice"
that I would gladly lose into you
I imagine my soul lighter as I carry it and
push it over the waves
the shackles in my ankles seem lighter too
what do I have to lose?
my voice-thin-and-anxious-a n d - f a l t e r
i n g-and-confident-and excited-finally
childishly
authentically like an old soul
I let his little hand
so he can run to you
[believing] I am finally ready
against the odds
fuck the odds
and fuck me
and fuck the voice
that fell down upon me
to teach me again, about life
"I am sorry but it's better to hear this
from me
rather than having your love returned
broken
or empty-eyed to you;
this sea has let another man into her
heart"
I grabbed his little hand, harshly
necessarily cruel to him - I was cruelty
and dislocated his joints so he may never run
to you [again]
so I did lose my voice after all
and I did lose the heaviness of my soul
for I feel numb
and the hollowing void is feeding on its flesh
and I feel stupid, so fuck me
would you kindly teach me now how to hate you?
would you let me learn how to unlove you?
yet you would not-
yet we set together, again
me, crippled and voiceless -an
exilic voice, a lost wanderer
on a green bench in a tiny garden
momentarily out of time
deliberately trying to expose myself -
deliberately seeming otherwise
beside a night sea, unfortunately not mine,
unfairly is gorgeous in black
playing with words,
and hopelessly gazing upon you through the
double glass door
[flowing] through the corridor
thinking how I'll ride home to the farthest
eastern side of the city I hate
and hug my retarded antisocial persian cat
[that] who will contently sit and lay and burr
beside you
but will never let a stranger touch her
she is probably the most intimate people in my
life [now]
and this is probably what I deserve-
however - let’s play a game of semantics
I’ll call this a friendship
and you, believe it
I know you do
I’ll walk by your side
and won’t hold your hand
we will talk, and I’ll masquerade my voice in
nakedness
and bore you with ten ways to trick [our]
writer’s block
and like the smartass I am, I’ll swallow my
love
and vomit it -disfigured and dissolved- in
words
tell you how I’ve become an expert in burying
my feelings
six feet under the white surface of the A4
papers
and six feet behind the vertical depth of this
glowing screen-
I’ll be a fake Messiah and do one last miracle
I’ll build my voice a ship
and make it walk on the image of a heavenly
night sea
make it ascend, and let it suspend in the
metaphorical void of [this] unrequited
voiceless asphyxiated love
will resurrect my voice
and lead him home-
if such game of semantics had rules
this –for sure- won’t be called love
and I would be nothing
but [the] Fool__
