A Woman Scorned

My anger stems irrationally from knowing
that I am loved mostly by myself and that I am alone
and that loneliness is a constant companion to the mind
that can somewhat consider itself.

I convince myself briefly that I would rather be dumb
and numbly going through the mundane motions,
whatever those are -surely something bland and lacking
internal zest and carnal frivolity
exhibited by minds riddled with scars that look like the word SIN
as if imprinted there by flesh crackers, the zealots ecstasy.

I can almost convince myself that mundane means happily oblivious
but even that sort of imaginary reprieve is tragically fleeting
existing momentarily before being dashed away
like the unfulfilled body of something small and new
tossed out of a car moving along the interstate
it lasts the span of one lovely swallow
before being beaten out by the thump of my mean soul,
its sweet and short like the intake of new air rushing over lungs
newly learning to swim, but taking too long and thrown in.

There's no obligation on the end of those I've chosen to receive me
or more specifically I mean those parts of me
which at the time seemed prepped for performance,
I recall no contracts saying that one must cherish me
THIS MUCH until I see fit, and yet
my anger is raw, a natural phenomenon forcing all things away
like the rushing walls of a hurricane,
it does not allow itself awareness or time to consider the injustice
of un-calculated devastation
and so it goes on casting small things asunder,
it does not even spare itself
but spirals out into dark bodies or rocky shores
reduced to unrecognizable drops of water.

The sons

The sons of man love like bats
sporadically moving from kill to kill
twitch from the fly to the gnat
weave into a blood fat mosquito
they're all much the same
similar enough to require no names
even the desire for an exotic insect when obliged
is devoured, shat out, the cycle begun again.

To truly know another

To truly know another
is to comprehend the breadth of the universe,
to perceive light
as it travels flightless from our sun.
It is to hear the voice of god,
to speak with dead brethren,
to defy gravity and move gracefully
through blue skies
sans the gift of man made flight apparatus.

I don't desire the fragment of a mind,
that small and inconsequential piece
of a vast and incomprehensible puzzle-
what is it worth, so pre-meditated,
to be given the thing that another places value on
by the judgement of the critical and ever probing public eye.

I wont settle for the shadow of a life
whilst pouring myself out,
(emptying my vessel of innards
into another's uncomprehending
and consequently ungrateful maw)
all those parts that make strangers squeamish;
the dirt the diamonds
the raw and rusty thumping bleeding ruptures,
the ingenuous softness
like something small, endearing and unnervingly honest,
the ghastly emotions and deplorable blanks
the empty empty blanks that leave us...

and the traitorous signs that blink bright fluorescent
turn away! turn away! turn away!  
All these rough rubbed parts of man,
the beautiful inglorious hideous
parts of man
lovable loving hateful hating
these small porous holes
and the great gaping places, which weep
constantly like ulcers and spread
if un-tended to.

I can only unzip
as far as the ragged metal teeth
of this flaccid reality allow,
and even then, even now
I'll keep the clasp above largely clawed
together.

It's not in my cards, this joker.
Freely giving love and receiving
equal rations.
I in my ignorance threw him out long ago
to reach the appropriate number of cards,
to cultivate the perfect hand.
Should have kept him in a quiet drawer
tucked away, private store,
but I threw him in the waste bin
and Ill see him
no more.