Post-Modern Art

She says, “He is the Magician.”

I say, “I am the Fool.”

There are only two kinds of songs. Love songs and songs not about love. Same, too, about letters. This is not a love letter. But, it is not, not a love letter either. It may be a love song. 

She says, “He is unavailable.”

I already know.

I say, “He is a treehouse.” Insubstantial, temporary, solitary, and yet, a shelter.

 

I already know, but I'm pretending that I don't, just in case, just this once. Maybe he's just busy. Or maybe he's shy. Or a part of him is unsure. Maybe part of him is unsure, and the other part of him could be convinced to give it a go. Even though...I know.

 

I know things won't work out. They never do. But, I'm usually the indifferent one, the shrugger, the sigher, the "whatever" sayer.

 

I'm too cynical for crushes, I'll admit to being sideswiped by this one. 

Like a slug of cock sauce and duck blood: delicious, exotic on the tongue, fire in the gullet, foreign in the belly.

 

Maybe it happens to him all the time. 

Maybe that makes him the Fool. 

And me, the Magician.

Who You Love:

A blonde. A brunette.

A brilliant overachiever.

A girl with a baby-lady voice.

A vegetarian.

She is slight in her flimsy cotton trench – Forever 21.

She snorts when she laughs. Or barks.

Sweetie. Honey. Doll. Dearie. Dumpling. Doodle. Darling.

A butterfly. A sleek golden cat.  A swan.

An animal.

Someone in old Havaianas with dusty callused heels.

Someone very vain in her black hot pants and tights with runs down her thighs. Curvy calves.

Someone who keeps track of her schedule in a dog-eared notebook with your name and her name and blue ballpoint hearts and stars.

Someone who bakes her own bread. And makes her own bed. 

Someone that knows all the words to that song. 

Someone that drives a yellow mid-70's Datsun with a Nixon Now bumper sticker. 

Someone who eats her blueberry muffin, a big cookie, a scone and drops the crumbs. Crumbs everywhere.

Someone older than you by 20 years. Old (white hair!) – strident and shrill – you see spunk and sass.

Someone broad-backed in horizontal stripes.

Someone with cat hair on her couch and coat.

Someone not from here.

Someone who loves herself more than she loves you: A bad ass. A hot mess.

A broad. A gal. A pal.

Someone younger. Funnier. Sweeter. Smarter. Thinner.

Paula. Lainey. Meg. Jen. Dawn. Gina. Kayla. Kristie. Kelly.

A feminist. A Republican. A poet. A Jew. A gardener. 

A massage therapist. A middle manager. A mom. A moron. 

Someone. Anyone. No one.

 Not me.

The Dead Horse Rising (Avery, Ben, Clinton, Jackson, Malik)

From Joce’s  The Art of Dreams Diary, 1994/1995

Army
Lined up like a picture,
my 5-man army boys,
wearing different armor,
lined up, like tin toys.

Looking proud and self-assured,
he winks and spouts a lying word.
Avery is a loving fool,
but sweet and innocent and cruel.

And gentle Ben, his grace well-known,
he wears a smile, angel-sewn.
In the humblest of attire,
A warmth and presence we admire.

Broken-hearted and anxious-eyed,
Clinton’s wishes are denied.
Confusion clutters up his soul,
while life's great chances take their toll.

Jackson, Jackson, with wicked heart,
he builds you up, then takes you apart,
Cheshire in his every way,
he sneaks up, scares, and flies away.

Malik great and Malik tall,
lets you see behind his wall,
then rebuilds it, brick by brick,
reminding you he’s Satan’s trick.

At home in the world (Malik)

12/2/1995

He has a picture of her pinned to the bulletin board above his desk at work. A quick glance and his eyes meet hers, jet black, kohl rimmed, deep and warm. She is everything you aren’t: rich, sophisticated, glamorous and worldly. She has perfect skin and beautifully coiffed hair. The daughter, granddaughter of great beauties, talented famous women.  

He could never, would never, love you as much as he loves her.

45-Year-Old Teen Idol (Jack)

All these crowded rooms, noisy with old New Wave, sticky with cotton
candy cocktails and you. You with your salt & pepper pompadour, sun
sparkle eyes of kiddie pool blue, argyle socks sandwiched between denim
cuffs and Chucks.

I am too old for this. And drunk. From here it’s just acrylic sweater fuzz
and egg yolk stains and flat pillows, but, oh, oh, just this once, I want to
run my thumb across your bristlecone pine lashes, thick and brushy and
soft, kiss the vinyl margins of your eyelids, pressed together when you talk.

We retire to a porch swing with a Wurlitzer wheeze; share a cigarette in
the tropics of November. You serenade me with obscure break-up songs
from no-hit wonders. The smell of your hair, Suave and smoke, reminds
me of someone I thought I loved, a long time ago.

Sitting next to you I notice the weightlessness of your body. Your paperwhite limbs,
how my fingers fit the grooves of your ribs, the adolescent birdness of you.
I want to catch the tip of the knob of your nose between my teeth,
eat it like a mushroom. It is the only thing human, fleshy about you.

Tonight, I know, you won’t break my heart. Instead, tiny needles with
diamond tips will perforate the surface from the inside and it will burst.
Burst from it’s own blood weight – a heartthrob – when both of us insist
on being at once beloved,
and unlovable.

Girls say yes to boys who say no (Malik)

22 July 1995

J - I wrote this after we got off the phone. I wish we could communicate better because there is so much more...I'm not in a good frame, of late, and I react by withdraw - Love, M

Hunters/Gatherers (Joce)

I will never again be a virgin, a born-again virgin, a born-again Christian or even just a regular old Christian. The Christians might have had me once, when I was very young, I liked the formality of the fabrics at the alter, the stained glass windows, the dark arched wood of the high church ceiling and the singing, but they kept handing out the same old coloring sheets in Sunday school, with Jesus in his big brown robe standing next to a wooly lamb. Brown and white, brown and white. I much preferred my coloring book at home based on Bulfinch’s Mythology: The Age of Fable or Stories of Gods and Heroes. I used all the colors to fill in the lines of the Pegasus and the Chimaeras and Centaurs. Medusa had snakes for hair! Even the fleece was gold. I’m a gold digger.

I will never be leggy or lithe or coltish. I will never have a “peaches and cream” complexion or a button nose or be cavity-free. I will never have long, lustrous hair, perky breasts, or feet sans callus. I will never have the hands of a pianist or the legs of a runner or the arms of a swimmer. I will never be quick on my feet or graceful when I dance. I have the shoulders of a shrugger, a sigher; I stoop collecting the missing buttons of your old coat. Beauty is weightless –I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. I am Atlas, 2004, out of date. God or hero? I am quick to judge. I can’t read a map. Or drive a stick.

I will never again have an original thought. I will not express this thought through a singular and creative voice. We are all sheep, brown and white, brown and white, comforted by our wooly thoughts. Hunter/gatherers. Cast your pearls before swine and dive for abalone, sheep.

Beating a dead horse (Joce, Mike, Em, Matt)

I AM NOT THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE
I am not the key to your lock,
I am not the tick to your clock,
I am not the shoe to your sock,
Or the response to your knock.

Wuv letter (Joce)

Two wonderful sounds
A letter, when said
Like no other
Is the double of another, 
W. 
Here am I, sans this letter, 
And all that it entails
Wishes, wisdom, wanderlust. 
Wondering if I can’t have W 
Can I at least have
U?

The wrong people (Malik)

Your life may seem like shit to you but that may only be because you know you can do better. Yes, you can do better.

Fairie Princess, you are one of the most talented and bright people I know. But I also understand that often one doesn't view themselves in real terms. If you look, you will find the right people. When you find the wrong people remember most of them don't count anyway.

I'm really tired and want to go home.

tot ziens,

Malik