failing to indict at 58

you didn't know my intentions
I never saw you lose
the daylight sheds my different skins
the river holds your skeleton as
daguerrotype in prehistoric times
we were lover and no one had
the patience for words

I still carry these fingers in a peanut butter jar
the same fingers that once lay in the shallow of
your shoulder blades while I thought about
learning to write (and your eyes stare out at me
from the length of the river always reminding me
that I only claim to be Osiris)

and it's weird the sun keeps coming up
I write the same movie rehearse your face
give you names through the decades
the small death comes and then with wings
leaves me once again like the flickers
of a strobe light or the dawn and the dusk
in the time machine

(are you really Isis? do you really whisper
to me from the river? your eyes penetrate
however many words I put between us and there
is no rock and roll your hands cannot stroke
out of me please not again don't tell me
that I am only idealising you we were once
lovers)

you don't know my intentions (I suspect myself)
I never saw you lose (I often thought I was your loss)
I changed my hands today they were worn
you crossed yourself in the river as I walked past
(you don't really believe it you just do it to bug me)

you know I've suspected you for years
I've the evidence the design
all I lack is the motive

Again another attempt to understand what might have been going on in my personal life. I like the business abut Osiris and Isis, though it switches the story around a bit. But the treating of "hands" as instruments that can be removed and replaced is using metaphor as it should be used. Hands denote the very act of writing these words. Wearing them out means this process has sucked the person dry and he desperately needs to get new hands, do something different.

I've decided that since no one reads this blog (seriously, very very few hits at all) I can pretty much say whatever I want. The chances that someone I know who's emotional reality will be hurt is almost impossible because they would feel constrained to read my poems, and that is a step most human beings will not take. Now perhaps GD will skip to the commentary and read it first. But most people will assume that you need to read the lines to get into the commentary. I am not sure anyone needs to read anything. That is how it is in this universe.

Meanwhile I go through these pieces and clean them up again, and try and find a happy medium between making them comprehensible and keeping that which I find beautiful in them, the lyric aspects of the language and its constructive music.

I particularly like the final lines because they resonate that which was in me at that time. I truly do not understand why * did this to me. Why could she possibly have gotten out of it all? I am sure that GD would say that she wasn't that aware, and that she played the game on a day to day basis. And there would be some truth to that. But I have those hundred odd poems, and there is a great deal more there than can be accounted for. It seems a stupid game from this temporal distance. So, I guess I wasted a significant portion of my life, evaluating it that way. That would be no surprise; in certain terms I am clearly a terrible failure. Yet, I ask the Lady for Her mercy and She brings it to me every day in the hugs and kisses of Kimberly Britton and Piper. Life goes on, despite your confusions. An important lesson and a useful one.