Well, I've been trying to work the intense experience of meeting this Quichua boy, Carlos, into some kind of poem for almost 4 years now. Nothing I end up putting down seems satisfying or truthfully, any good. If anyone could help me figure out what imagery here works and what needs to be jettisoned, that would be really helpful. I wrote an incredible email in 2003 about this experience in the jungle with Carlos, an email in which I came out to all of my fiends basically. Anyways, please read the following and provide suggestions. Thanks.
1.
he sat down next to me
and said something
in quichua
his caramel skin
and his shiny black hair
reflected what little starlight there was
he
you see i was
weak
around him
and he must have known
the way i couldn't breathe
like
a normal person does
the way someone can own you
someone calls
them
destroyers
2.
"what do you want"
his eyes were huge and blank
glassy
what am i supposed to say here?
"uh..."
"i want to see some alligators tonight,
for the turistas"
i looked down
and he left
at the approach of flashlights
what a safe fucking answer that was
what a terrible
safe
answer that was
3.
what you should know
really
is how the night
in the jungle
on the blackest of lagoons
had no moon
it was all starlight
the way the patterns
mirrored themselves
sinistral to dextral
the edges of the lake
had no edges
no ends
and endless black velvet
like
floating in space
out on the water
nothing no one
made a sound
they dared not
lest they become re attached
to their bodies
it was
black and endless and everywhere
and even
the alligators
felt like
pure everything
in awe
part of space
4.
i wish i could explain
to you
how beautiful he was
in everything
the way he slipped on a t shirt
or swiped a machete
the effortless smooth
lips
or hand turns
the curve of a thigh
or
how the night
made me feel like nothing
but
a wraith
floating in the stars
5.
you need to know
how
the jungle at night
is the real knowing of it
how
the noises in the darkness
sharpen you
how the whole world
can
either seem
endless
or
can exist in
the 3 foot
circle of your
flashlight
one drop of water
falling
one millipede crawling
across a leaf
the sound of sand grains
its tiny feet
how these are the moments
that kill you forever
and every time
how darkness tunes you
sharpens things
expands
6.
i should have said
"i want things i can't have,
things i won't give myself.
i want to be more than
these people will let me
be"
and he would have looked at me
confused
and warmly
and i would still
be alone that
night
7.
how one quiet
moment
can haunt
yes
haunt you
like
dead friends
every quiet moment
8.
was i gay then or just in love with something beautiful?
what a trite thing to ask
no?
it just felt like
something overwhelming in nature
you know?
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Poems, Animals, Lust
Me
- Shai W. Thanatos
- i let my passions get the better of me. undisciplined, very sweet, kind of nerdy, maybe sometimes. poet. naturalist.
Blog Archive
-
▼
2008
(116)
-
▼
August
(18)
- MY THOUGHTS ON YOU MAKE A HOMUNCULUS pt 1 (BLEACH)
- A GALLERY OF CATERPILLARS
- MURCOF (a study in sub low)
- FRAGMENTS OF PAST LUST
- DAT POLITICS - This Way
- DOES IT FEEL DAMP IN HERE TO YOU? (for Jared)
- A COLLECTION OF ARACHNIDS FOR LUKA
- .......................................Be a Fuckin...
- an exercise in noises at CATARACT/Smegma (reworked)
- More Man Meat and Critters
- THERE IS REALLY ONLY ONE REASON WHY I WATCH THE OL...
- Just a Couple of Ideas
- HOT LITERARY MAN MEAT (or rather SOME MORE HANDSOM...
- SOMETHING ABOUT SOME SHIT SOMEBODY SAID TO ME ABOU...
- A POEM FOR DENNIS COOPER'S WRITER'S DAY
- CARLOS
- LES CHANSONS D'AMOUR
- How Precious... oh its supposed to be art?
-
▼
August
(18)
7 comments:
Caramel is wrong. Another color, like coffee... When I hear the name Carlos I think of a terrorist, but then I think so do you, or at least an assassin, that you hired.
You hired your own assassin, to shoot you in the heart. That is why you call it beautiful.
I think there is a very fine piece in this that is getting lost. You start off beautifully, simply: "he sat down next to me" to "what little starlight there was" Then I think it gets self-conscious in the writing instead of just in the uncertain boy who finds himself in close proximity to a dream. I would cut out the "he must have known" and the "like a normal person," etc. and stay with the unease, the longing - - - directness, instead of explanation. Section 3 regains the flow as you take us into your jungle of lovely confusion, the mirror image of the boy's hair, etc. Again, I would avoid the "what you should know" and take us deeper into the feelings. This goes for much of the rest of the work. I think the questioning would be better done in images. The open questioning makes me lose my place in the atmosphere you're creating. Anyway, I think you really have something that just needs to be stripped away and revealed. Thanks for letting me comment on this. It's helped me think about my own writing. Good luck.
Take another look at what's inside his 'sitting down' that makes him 'next' to you. And then abandon all prepositions except for those that go down. Call him 'Carlos' instead of 'he'. Take the little starlight that was there and put it inside the breath that you couldn't breathe. Change 'own' to 'down'. Masturbate each time you write his name (I'm not kidding). Destroy each and every sentence that makes sense to you. Remember: he's Carlos. He doesn't have a syntax.
(And don't get discouraged. Keep writing him--in everything you do--over and over again.)
hey shai...it me...the guy who deletes as soon as he thinks about it...not this time though buddy boy...what the problem here? You don't need help...repeat after me "I don't need help"...so says the psych boy to thee.
Seriously, I think it's beautiful as is...don't second guess or overwork this one...troublesome offspring or not...leave it be. That's my rather plebian take on matters at hand. God, I am sooo very helpful...now aren't I?
Did I ever thank you for the poems you wrote for me? Thanks, they warmed the cockles...and what were you doing with my people down south? School stuff? Work stuff? Why were down there? Research? Ha! None of my businesss really, but that doesn't stop me... now does it?
Cheers, Shai-what-ever-your real-name-is,
mine is Mark xo
Yo Eric Bwoi...you deleted me before I could clean up my cyber tracks...you rool. Nah...really thanks for the kind words...I always wished my degree had been in Biology, but alas, I went for the parsing of grey matter (psych). Don't get me wrong, I love that too (perhaps more now by default...if you follow that drift)...but my first love was in the dirt "out there". So I envy you your work to some extent. And, yes, Carlos remains fine...check my new run-away-jump-in-a-ditch-soon-to burn-in-the-hell-of-deletion creation if you have the time or inkling (on pill-sized).
hope that you're fine, well,
and, of course, tolerably happy,
Mark
I just saw your work on DC's blog and I was blown the ever loving fuck away. This poem is beyond amazing, as well. Section 2 made me gasp: I've felt that.
Post a Comment