November 5, 2011

I wrote a long prose poem in my mid-twenties. Most of the poem is about failure. The failure of will. Of ambition. Of a relationship that is doomed from the beginning. With misgivings. A lack of fun. A deep sense of responsibility and guilt. I myself was in such a relationship. With a friend. Who should never  have been a lover. At least from my perspective. Although never unfaithful in body, my real self was somewhere else. I cheated the relationship. But this isn’t about confession. But something else. Confusion I think. And cowardice. Although admitting that is also cowardice because it has something to do with a general malaise of spirit. But you can see for yourself in Part One.



Part 1


Temperamentally unsuited for graduate school, was how the department head had phrased my exile. Noxzema drooled down his lips as he pronounced the sentence – emotionally unequipped for life. We had never gotten along. He couldn’t forgive anyone who had doubts about Descartes. The question never was whether one existed or not. The question was why did one exist. One time at a party before he had ascended into the chairmanship, we had gotten into a spat. He accused me of back stabbing. Of negativism. Of using wit as a knife on others. With a personality like yours, I replied, all I need is a spoon.


Woke up with a start. Parachuting out of a dream I drifted into consciousness. Holding her hands in front of my face. I pulled on each finger separately. What are you trying to do, she asked. I’m just making sure they still belong to you.


Naked beside a morning window. Her body gathers only the light that is pure. Long brown hair. The way her fingers run through. My thighs ache for an old familiarity. I’ve always wanted to make love to an angel from behind.

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