Sunday, March 11, 2012

Literary Exercise #27: Babe, Wildy

Babe, Wildly:

Listen baby,
there's two things to be said,
either you're from heaven
or I'm from hell,
either way,
I dread it.

(I've been dreaming of you
for years,
I get no sleep)

You want to know
why I'm afraid,
of you,
of being freed by you?

You want to know
I'm scared,
of how damn much
I want you?
(and as scared
you don't)

You want to know this drought,
these coarse grains,
sunken heart
and flat veins,
from hiding out
in ditches,
from keeping under rocks
and from the sun?

By heaven and hallowed Father,
I had it said,
we'll be one,
but made it bigger,
the moment,
than would allow.
(for wouldn't the hallowed and heavenly
have me not hold us to them?)

And anyway I've crossed
those moments,
where I've crossed myself;
kicking up clouds of dust,
caught up in thoughts of rain.

But you make me
want to run,
you make me want to
dance baby,
to crawl out
and train my legs,
sway my hips,
and since you make me,
do you know you do?

Sometimes, I wonder,
what do I gain,
by this,
by being sad and silent,
what can be had?

This poem,
this desert.

So I'll just face it,
the inexplicable,
because of you --
stride into the night,
toughen,
eat glass and gravel,
square off,
stretch muscle,
so my gut can get knocked in,
(you fancy an evening drive)
fast-approaching lights,
dazzling mist, dampened,
obliterated organs,
this.

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