blissful insanity

Happy New Year

(I wrote this in the first few hours of 2015. For some reason I’m only publishing it now.)

Happy new year!
Year, tear, steer, fear
Far – near
There! That’s all the useless rhymes
Out of way – now maybe I can write
The irregular details and discordant –
Facts, the things that don’t rhyme
But are – most important
I wished we could bike together on the eve –
Of the new year, and with stereos strapped to our bikes, sing:
“Happy new year, you assholes!” –
sing until our hearts bleed a little;
the spittle from our mouths would tell me maybe,
maybe we’re singing loud enough –
baby, I don’t –
I don’t breathe anymore until
My lungs stutter asking after you –
asking my brain if you’re okay at that moment – but even better:
my brain sends back down a letter
signed off and wax-stamped, in which my brain cells utter:
“It’s alright, breathe, take in another,
She’s alive – she dances –
Like a beautiful feather!”

Back to normal now, back to, back to:

I Iove her at length; a length:
like the width of the world, or the approximate distance from
From the hot-blooded South –
to the Nether!
I love her – but to another,
I bet I seem insane; then again, since when do rich stomachs feel those that suffer –
that eat themselves
Because fois gras fucking isn’t on offer?

What does anyone but me know of loving – without measure?
My endeavor is long!
Scars crawl into my skin and slither
Snake-paths into my flesh, and whether –
I carry the map of my battleground on my chest,
or on the walls – of my heart – drawn blood pictograms
and tissue fissure; I don’t forget:
My endeavor is long, sir,
But my end is treasure!

I’ll give you my two-cents – I swear,
it makes sense that she’s – a perfectionist,
because the tide may leave the shore and abandon its home –
but it always comes back to where its roots were sown.
It makes sense –
that she’s a perfectionist – because she – like the tide –
probably just misses her own kind.

.