words, words, words
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If I begin to detail myself here, will you understand?
P. I am me
Q. I don't always know exactly who that is
R. I am Quaker
S. I like words and playing with them
T. I like genmaicha tea
U. I like the word napkin more than most others
V. I spend time walking my neighborhood
W. I cook rice often
X. I sleep well most every night
Y. I eat large amounts of fruit and vegetables
Z. I munch, sleep, write, create, cook, bike, watch, walk, listen, hope, learn, drink, live, breathe, touch, know, question, taste, copy, read, stare, carry, talk, dance, finger, try.
raisin@gmail.com
albums:
Magnetic Fields: 69 Love Songs
Erasure: I Say, I Say, I Say
Depeche Mode: Black Celebration
The Beach Boys: Pet Sounds
Marvin Gaye: What's Going On?
David Bowie: Hunky Dory
George Michael: Listen without Prejudice
George Gershwin: Porgy and Bess
Yo La Tengo: And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out
songs:
Wild is the Wind: Nina Simone
Come Undone: Duran Duran
Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini: Rachmaninov
My Funny Valentine: Chet Baker
Feeling Yourself Disintegrate: The Flaming Lips
This Must Be the Place: The Talking Heads
Hyperballad: Bjork
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Monday, June 09, 2003
Who are you?
I don't use that word often,
you,
too focused on I, repeating the pronoun
obsessing like any gay man who knows he's too hot,
the desire of so many men and women
I know it so well, I disregard you
busy digging beneath the self I knew
down to the mineral ore,
so quickly I unearthed too many demons;
I had to rescue myself, be my own best friend,
so I learned to heal myself, love myself.
Now that I have lowered the walls
between myself and myself
I shine through my skin like glass
attracting more than physical.
Yes, i gloried in it, soaked in it
because I was so dry
squeezed by my father and the air force
who pushed me into shapes
I didn't fit, ignoring my my-ness
Now you're here, with your own life
I am curious for once, though ignorant
having licked all my own wounds, now can see yours.
So who are you?
the answer can't be easy, can it?
You've been telling me all along, haven't you?
but like Liza Doolittle, I don't hear right,
don't distinguish between my speech and yours,
your stories that I pull into mine
as if you exist only to spur
my memory of myself.
But you have stories I don't recognize
when your father forced you to
watch him abuse your sister
when those high school boys mocked you
for your awkward figure and quiet soul.
So I have to lay myself down,
lay down all that lust thrown at me
so I can see your gold,
dig for it under your skin.
I know how to play the game,
tossing a hungry glance, looking away
but not how to love,
the realness that demands sacrifice
staring into your eyes, inside you.
I promise I'll try, past the first, third, fifth,
and tenth failures
until, like Helen Keller, I feel the water
on my hands and know it has a name
a meaning, a language in itself
until finally, finally,
I understand who you are.
9:48 AM
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