Foreign Window & Irish Rover

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For you, on a rainy day

because you are my lover, you may believe
that i will not change 'til you say thus,
that my temperament will remain as sweet and amiable as the
soft pattering of raindrops on your shoulders as we kiss;
that my love will persevere
despite changing seasons, holocausts, wars.

because you are my lover, you may believe
that you will be enough to save me,
you remember the way you have salvaged me from so many fears,
you will believe that your hands will always be capable of
protection,
your mouth, of sound advice.

because you are my lover, you may believe
that i will want for nothing;
that this love that we forsake others for
will be our redemption-
the fine balloon of salvation that will succeed in finally lifting us out
of the direness of memories that used to hold us captive and unquenched.

because you are my lover, you may believe
that this love is enough to erase remnants of unsolved history.
you say it is fairy dust sprinkled all over me
or a cloak that you help me put over my confused head.

i would like you to remember that i am only human.

that because of its quality of impermanence, love will tire of weaving
forevers out of drunken silk.
i guarantee only some things:
that i will indeed change, for i will get caught in the frenzy of moments that may
be both taxing and unsensual, all of which may have the power
to eradicate sweetness.
that i will be, at times, dissatisfied with silence and will take to loneliness.
there will be hours that i will not require your company,
seconds when i will be content with solitary pursuits and might forget
to ask you to come along.
there will be wars that i will have to come out of scathed and defeated.
i will sometimes heed the wailing of my own wants and will not ask
you what you think about them.
and like any human being, i will want for something more than who i have become.
i would thirst for other things than what i now have.
and yes, i was only made from dust.
my strength will waver, for i have my own recollections, my own versions of past events that chain me.

but inspite of all this, i give you only
a love that is as real as your left hand,
undiluted and without deception.
it is not a by-product of romance in movies or passionate deaths in novels,
it has never been the kind of love that springs from infinite longing,
but it is as constant as the wind that dried your tears
when your sole comfort was loneliness.

this is all i can give you
for this is all i have.

there, of course, is a fervent wish
that things will be different, that we will be undefeated by
cliches and wanderlust;
that we will be happy and content with only this to adorn our existence.
but if time proves us unworthy of this ideal,
i will claim myself happy
because i have stood beside you,
because i have given you
my version of stars.

Dreaming in the afternoons

i dream of change
like i dream about uneasy seasons
or of fitful warriors dying in chariots that fly faster
than comets;

i dream of change
like it is something that i remember happening;
a glass memory that i have mistakenly placed in someone
else's hands -
hands that i thought were capable enough to hold it.

i dream of change
as if i were
a marching hunger artist,with bagfuls of ideal sacrifices
hoisted on my shoulders.
i know i am tired but my hunger means nothing.
my beliefs propel me to the stars.

i dream of change
as if you were here
as if there were, again, boatrides and candied apples
during eternal afternoons that were as glossy as
newness.

but most of the time, i wake myself out of these dreams.
you can never know where all this freedom will take you.

The real thing

"all my innocence is wasted on the dead and dreaming." - angels of the silences, counting crows

Growing Pains

i am still turning 10 'til now.


On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed. - Billy Collins

Turning Japanese: The New Prozac

"I'm turning Japanese, I really think so." - The Vapors, Turning Japanese

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