Tuesday, January 22, 2013

The Urge Toward Revisionist Dreaming When Heaven is as Unknowable as the Earth

When pressed, she lays down a longing tone,
a pleasing riff and some blue notes
and I, because it's all that I have,
my ear, my axe and my fake-book,
surround her sound like David Murray,
blowing the snot out of what are
only pretenses
of her sad and sorry world
encased in ice.

The cry me a river defense
deep in the suburban diaspora:
can she reach beyond
"he hates me now"
to shed some callous skin?

The hero that I wanted to be
gave it all to her quite willingly,
the things she didn't want to take
to get to what she needed.

Wherever you are, whatever you feel,
it's not what I am feeling for you now.
There's nothing you can say
—pretending feelings are something
besides clay.

3 comments:

Hannah Stephenson said...

This poem goes in so many surprising directions! I especially liked the ending (and the title, of course).

the walking man said...

Heroes are made of moments not lifetimes and in getting what was needed what was taken was willingly so.

Oh but I do like pretend feelings until they get fired and become hardened reality.

Jack said...

I often play the role of one who gives people what they don't want to take. What a great poem, precise and universal.