poetry, this is not me

this is me       this is not me       i am  i am       i am not i am not       am i am i am i       this is        not me

this is me       this is not me       i am                          i am                 am i am i am i            i am          i am

this is me       this is not me       i am                          not                  am i am i am i           i am not i am not

this is me       this is not me       i am  i am                i am                 am i am                      i am not i am not

this                 this is not me       i am                          not i                am   i am                          this is me

is                    this is not me       i am                           am                  i am    i am                             i am

me                  this is not me       i am  i am                 not i                i am        i am                        i am

he

he is born of s/he is born of s/he is born of s/he is born of s/he he is born of s/he he is born of s/he is born of s/he is born of s/he is born of s/he is born of s/he is born of s/he is born of s/he is born of s/he […]

nowadays…

Image

i started reading Mayakovsky and i’ve found myself in a polyamorous situation. i’m in love with the page, the poet and the future.past.past.future (time). O’Hara captures it so wonderfully…

Mayakovsky

1
My heart’s aflutter!
I am standing in the bath tub
crying. Mother, mother
who am I? If he
will just come back once
and kiss me on the face
his coarse hair brush
my temple, it’s throbbing!
then I can put on my clothes
I guess, and walk the streets.
2
I love you. I love you,
but I’m turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.
Words! be
sick as I am sick, swoon,
roll back your eyes, a pool,
and I’ll stare down
at my wounded beauty
which at best is only a talent
for poetry.
Cannot please, cannot charm or win
what a poet!
and the clear water is thick
with bloody blows on its head.
I embrace a cloud,
but when I soared
it rained.
3
That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest
oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks
what a funny place to rupture!
and now it is raining on the ailanthus
as I step out onto the window ledge
the tracks below me are smoky and
glistening with a passion for running
I leap into the leaves, green like the sea
4
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.