Originally posted 11/11/2012.
Here is a human heart,
a fist-sized ball of thick meat;
here is its dimly connected brain.
in a sealed box
in the wet of the mind,
the brain’s ropes and curls,
is an inaccurate map
the heart is supposed to follow,
but never does.
The blind little stubborn heart,
running off on its own;
the jealous careful brain
whining and tagging along behind —
that’s the story of,
that’s the glory of…
Originally posted 8/29/2013.
Providence, dark bayside muse,
lent itself well to his humors.
He glimpsed potential lovers
in the same pits and holes
where potential horrors could be found.
He did not in real life love much or well.
He did not trust others, carried dank biases too far,
mistrusted at last even the devotion
of his own monsters to their creator;
in the long run, he only kept the city
as full companion and partner. He was born
here, left and returned, eventually died
muttering about the pain in his gut and
the Elder Race in his dreams, settling at last
on one phrase to capture all his intention:
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”
In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.
Think of the man unveiled there:
one so soaked with darkness he had to squeeze out
new words for those depths within him,
the same depths he sensed in the alleys behind the grand homes
of Angell Street, Waterman Street, Benefit Street;
the depths in the drowned eyes that sought him out when he stared into
the waters that emptied here from the New England hills.
New words for something at once terrible and inescapable —
something, at least to him, very much like love.
Originally posted 6/29/2012.
You, flying the prog-rock airplane of your love,
make the crazy leap to stratosphere.
Something comes knocking on the hatch door.
It is the object of your affection, wearing a jet pack,
holding the ring you gave her in her hand;
she hurls it into the plane and swoops away.
Your crew secures the hatch behind her.
They turn to look at you,
stoic in the pilot’s seat.
How did she fly so high as to get to you?
Some questions are meant either to be unanswered,
to be incomprehensible without a life change,
or to be aged into
before answering. It rarely matters which
of these is true. What matters is what the pilot does
with the prog-rock airplane of his love
after it has been rejected. Does the pilot choose
to settle into an awkwardly worded
power ballad nose dive, or to surge higher
on waves of bass triplets and Mixolydian modal guitar runs
until the plane reaches its structural limits and explodes?
You choose another way, push a tear back into its duct
through sheer strength of will; then,
as if in a coda, you head back to base.