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I am not a little boy.

Blame
does not come from
nowhere, nothing, snatched
from empty space. Our
(re)actions are not
isolated, pristine or static
blank
as cold, white plates
hanging distantly
seamless

anonymous as
the moon.

Just as you there
(veiled woman, fragile heartless girl
monster, you intimate yet blunt
glass stranger)
are sometimes filled with otherness.

I see you
from across this room
sprawled listless, naked
shaved, pained, unpainted
across a stripped canvas
bed, your honey brambled
stately head tipped starkly toward
the wall. If you raised
your dainty finger to deign
“No, not you, that other
one. Him. He whom I
have chosen. He in whom I
delight. He who touches
my most secret, inner
parts.” your finger would not
soar from nothing or from
no one. Not at all.

I am not your little boy
too wide-eyed, needy, coy
to follow your wry smile
where it leads

behind a shadow or a door…
and yet, how hard to read
the heaviness of your half-clenched hand
the brutal in-sweep of your thigh
your wrenched expression’s stifled
sigh, your lifeless lidded answers:
“I’ve no idea” and
“No reason why”

But blame, if I take it,
does what? Turns an imagined
Him into some vile hero, turns
you into a wretched Her
against me, turns
my unguarded wants into
spirals of hard words, stony
resentments, pithy refusals:
a plate of broken strings,
a mass of cold, bland noodles
heaped with flabby meatballs of shame.
Even then I’d still have my endless devouring,
this dark frenzy of insufferable questions.

I could dip my fingers into the cool
slippery strands of your blonde hair and
yank, howling “What have you done with her?
That girl who loved me? Where…?”

but won’t when
neither of us knows.

I think
she slipped
away by phases
through a maze of other games
forking out from my own trail littered
with the wreckage of flat old in-jokes, same
stale Xbox afternoons, untasted beer and
the clinking shell of laughter’s
last frail
echo.

It doesn’t matter that I almost
understand.

I hate her
that lilting drifter who left me here --

too quickly divorced from my childhood playgrounds
still clutching for broken, yellow crayons
bobbing and wobbly as a rubber duck maverick
determined to crash and drown --

no longer a hapless, orphaned boy
but still not yet a man.


------
"All the darkness in the world
cannot put out the light
of one candle"


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Comments

The following comments are for "I Hate Her, Too"
by hazelfaern

Wow
Girl, so much feeling here. Felt like I was spiraling out of control with you. Pain, hurt, loss and not understanding all wrapped into a string of words/poem/rant. Will have to reread a few more times.

Nae

( Posted by: nae411 [Member] On: December 5, 2005 )

i like the way you
use the page in this poem. and the images are rather extraordinary. I liked this poem a lot.

j.jd.

( Posted by: johnjohndoe [Member] On: December 5, 2005 )

Sergeant Pepper?
I feel suddenly as if the rest of this site is still primly listening to Bill Haley, while you and Andy have grown moptops and started writing a concept album. It's fascinating, and impressive, to observe!
Kind of hard to view the new wave of poems without the intrusive echo of the preceding pair, but there's certainly an education in poetic process going on here. (The power of viewpoint; the inversion and amplification of certain images, etc.)

I await with baited breath the Dark Side of your mutual Moon...

( Posted by: MobiusSoul [Member] On: December 5, 2005 )

Static, Feedback and the Reverb Pedal
Nae, Johnjohn, Caitlin ~ my many thanks for your comments.

It's looking like Andy may be the brighter conceptualist between us. You see, I had this idea that if we took our recent Hate poems, swapped them and rewrote them, we'd both gain some interesting insights into our particular personal processes *and* any feedback we got back on our poems would be geared more towards our editing than our writing styles -- which I thought would be pretty damn cool.

Not as much of a reaction this time and that's ok -- could just be lowered foottraffic because it's December and the holidays are looming, or lower foottraffic generally, or, grin and bear it, the subject of hate may simply have a limited amount of give to play on.

I do really like the way the two poems turned out -- I love what Andy did with mine. I think that, in writing, as in the broader realm of creativity generally, the dual-dance of enlarging through inspiration and refining through process can be a tricky magic act to really nail down. Being able to see what another writer will do with the same material can be more than enlightening.

Above and beyond that, I love the idea that nothing is ever static -- no story truly ends, no creative work is ever done, and there are at least several gigazillion possible permutations within every poem. I like to push on the elasticity of what is. I like to play with the reverb pedal on reality.

Beyond-beyond that, I think both Andy and I just like to make up new games -- and if we can make up a new game using poetry, well, how funktaculous is that?

If we go round once more, it's Andy's turn to take a stab at premise, so you'll have to ask him what's next.

Caitlin, your comment made me gleam. I am craftily concocting means to attach a moptop to my avatar as I type. Thank you, as ever, for your insightful eyes.

( Posted by: hazelfaern [Member] On: December 6, 2005 )

So Strong
I love this. The diction, the emotion, and the creativity combined into a wonderful read. You've certainly succeeded in "play[ing] with the reverb pedal on reality"!

My favorite moment:
I could dip my fingers into the cool
slippery strands of your blonde hair and
yank, howling “What have you done with her?
That girl who loved me? Where…?”

( Posted by: veganmaster [Member] On: December 16, 2005 )





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