Thursday, March 19, 2009

Against the Economics of Tonight

They just left.
Without a word, as if I wasn't there.
Was I, all along, an adornment?
To these men I risked calling my friends...
I want to say 'never again' but I know better.

Is it an economy of presence: as if on Facebook, where one is reassured by the numbers alone?
(Alone with numbers...?)

In this moment I long for the Writer.
That he might ground me again to the currents I must let pass through me--and remain unharmed by.
It is not about whether or not he loves me: it is about how he quiets me.
I need to be quieted in these moments.
Or I'd damn the whole world.

It's wholly my fault, I know.
I tried to alleviate this accumulated tension by finding a boy I could just fuck--or be fucked by.
And who better than some European I will never see again?
Anything to get the foreplay of cigar smoke out of my lungs and my memory.

But this finds me writing, again.
To a boy who I will never allow to read these words.
Scribbled as they are on a train, headed home, fleeing a text message that reads a pleading "where are you?"
Because I will never write that message, nor will I ever lower myself to ask: am I only ever where you ask me to be...?

So I am home, where I need to be, preparing for tomorrow's class, writing so many words about love, completion, mythos...
Trying to get my students to imagine the possibility of a life I am constantly seeing foreclosed.
And in these moments, when I ask them to dare...
but after a night of daring rejected...: I am cynical, and weak, and short-tempered.
No, don't tempt me to turn against my own hopes: my doubt is ravenous, and these ideals so many unprotected flanks.
I will rip me apart in an instant.

But they just left...
And I don't need to tear myself apart, because they did it for me.
There is no intellectualizing that.
It is simply the cold walking-away of people who never cared if you were there or not.
And what pithy reply do you muster then?
None.
Because it is a silent death that confronts you: there is no screaming, no rebuttal, no chance to make peace: there is only the solitary walk to a train station, the solitary ride home, and then the solitary reflection on this moment of rejection.

But you seethe and you ache, and you look for the first body available to punish.
It isn't their bodies.
It is only ever yours... immediate, constant, guilty of feeling the very pain you loathe.
And in turning away from this crude punishment, you cast doubt on every body you ever were in contact with: you erect an alienation between yourself and those "hims"... and you sing the distance in a hateful song of pride.

I wonder, a fresh, about the Writer...

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