Can’t and won’t and
why and how
Objectifiers of the now
placing fault upon the “must”
It’s in the heart that one should trust
Can’t and won’t and
I’m at the Metro again, watching Lady Lamb the Beekeeper tend to a roomful of hornets. Happy drones guzzling beer, swaying, paying homage to the queen on a Thursday.
Her voice is less like honey and more the stabby, other end of a yellow jacket. A threatening barb that knows how to deliver over and over.
She wears black pants, boots, guitar. She spits black and lets black dribble out the side of her mouth. Her eyebrow quotation marks bend in and away from one another guiding her eyes anywhere anywhere other than to whatever stringed thing she happens to hold in her hands.
She strums you through birds being born and suicide love splats. Over rivers and past fuck yous. Until finally her honeycombed bee eyes see you into a reverse fairy tale. Where you listen, helplessly, as those two chubby German kids get gobbled by the witch - then break free, skipping and singing only to be eaten up again.
I will not let you go
No further than my cat
Little pet upon a string
I’d rather you fat and useless
Two a’s, neither of which connect fully and so look like little u’s instead. “Miss Muier, the doctor will see you now.” Her i dots fall just slightly right: three moons competing to beat back beyond the horizon. Flourishes on both the V and M, which stand tall and proud before giving way to chaotic sloppiness. Caring and then not caring so much. Compulsion giving way to so many boxes of undeveloped life.
Space between the V, the v, the i, the M. Anything would have trouble connecting to those little faker a’s. A cooked smiling curve down the second i to a disfigured e. Culminating in an r which looks more like an afterthought than a real ending.
The formal mark of a vampira too afraid to leave much more than that. Swatting at an empty reflection, stealing shots of her shadow instead. Lurking towards humanity like a life beggar grasping for a slice.
The frailty of winter
The coming of the spring
A roundabout recession
A bifurcated ring
Thing turning back onto itself
Sweet within a jar
High upon a shelf
A little bird inside her nest
Seen yet out of reach
Our hearts are masters of the cold
Warm lessons must we soon them teach
We’re in a forest and water is moving hard behind them. They must be on a bridge, but you can’t tell that because the photo cuts off at their knees. So instead, they hover. A couple of Jesus-es. Water walking, bread breaking, self-less love giving.
With that staff he’s holding, he actually looks a little like Jesus. It’s not actually a staff, it’s a walking stick, but he grips it so hard he looks like he’s leading Jews out of Israel.
Like the way he grips her.
We only see one of her arms. It’s the one with the faintest glimmer of a wedding ring on it. Or, if there is no ring, it’s like it’s foreshadowing a ring. Oh ghost ring that knows so much, why can’t you also predict her untimely death, struck down by a drunk, blackness coming on faster than an angry night can push the sun.
He stares so seriously at the camera. The shadows on the right side of his face form deep pools for his eyes to swim in.
Too many shadows for such a bright day.
She left him, you know. Or did he leave her? They left each other, but then he won her back. Felt the love thing clawing at him, like so much doom and destiny. Nails ripping right down the back.
They’re so far over to the left they’re almost falling out of the shot, but his staff holds steady and they stand and stare. Not seeing the whitecaps behind them. The rushing, snickering thing just beginning to lap at their heels. The biting mite that will nibble his memory away so that he can’t even remember he had a wife. And is she dead or alive? And did he kill her? He brought her here, didn’t he? Isn’t that like killing her?
But no more of this. The photo shows a striped and sunny day.
While we may linger for a while, our couple’s there to stay.
It’s Sunday and I leave at 10am to walk to yoga. It’s beautiful and sunny and the birds have started to sing again. I get to the end of the block and run into a funeral. I stop and look. There’s a man outside in a suit, but he’s standing near the hearse and seems to be with the funeral home. Inside the church I can only make out the backs of people’s legs, a few dresses. The dim drear of death starts to sound from within. I see a name on this hearse and think, I will look this person up later, to see who they were and remember them on this spring day. But the name is the funeral home’s and so the person remains ageless, sexless, shapeless. All the things that dying makes us anyway. So I hurry on to yoga. Praying to no one for no one.
The other night, I dreamt I was talking to dead Marilyn Monroe on the phone. She kept telling me she was okay - that her death had been set up and she was still alive, still living on the other side of Hollywood.
But I knew that wasn’t true. I could hear it in her voice. She was just a ghost, trying to convince me - and herself - that she wasn’t dead. Then something else scary happened in the dream. I heard some voices talking and then I was at a friend’s house, but she told me I couldn’t stay at her place, so then I was alone. And scared that the voices would come back to get me.
I woke up at around 2:30 a.m. My roommate wasn’t home. So I turned on my light and waited. And calmed down. And eventually I felt tired and not quite as alone. And the Marilyn ghost left. And I slept.
Too cold to go to sleep.
Too hot to stay awake.
Too hard to face reality.
Too easy to be fake.
Too full to be so empty.
Too vast to have so much.
Too steady for such shaking.
Too strong for such a crutch.
But being “too” is weary
Sometimes I’d rather “not enough”
Some prefer the road well paved
For me, I take it rough.