i can hear about how my past friends were poison to me
( i can imagine it the other way around... )
i can listen to the music of teen-age years
the voice recordings of "The Door"
by CS Lewis... or Edmund White? or EM Forester? i don't remember his name
i just remember Richard was Obsessed with that story
so he read it to Trevis [who recorded it]
as he read it to me
as he read it to every young thing who he found
with an existential crisis:
there's got to be more to life and the world
than getting a job
suffering under it
ignorant and unhappy
Or blissfully sedated
of finding the right door to make God happy
or finding the right door to get out of this dreaded experiment
of human Kindness
the wars and jokes and battles and games
the endless suffering of broken hearts and forsaken gardens...
as we were drawn to eachother:
Teen Agers in the wasteland...
even the waste land of New York City
where we would talk on the phone and he would point at me and say
"you generate an energy that's very difficult to be around...
i am fine with you when we are alone
but if we are with anyone else
anyone else i know
anyone you don't
i can't take it
i feel ashamed, uncomfortable
like i can't take it: i have to get away"
and i can think about that
and wonder of my own faults
and my current Friend [lover] would say
"he's just in the Closet"
because he's only a Homosexual in the socially acceptable sense of the word
of the main stream variety
and my friend has a certain acceptable contempt for that
as i do
as i wonder
what i should do?
find a vice and stick to it!
chew on the floor...
have sex every day
the ebb of energy keeping me still and placated
or drink bourbon with mint leaves
and a bottle of red wine
it's enough for one night
or a day or masturbation
but looking through a million photographs
and hearing the old voices
did i forsake them?
did i forsake myself?
what am i doing now?
do i need to impress anyone with my writing?
with my beauty?
with my voice?
do i need to give to the world?
does it care?
will it help?
or is it just Something To Do?
and is that Something, perhaps, Better than Other things to do?
like watching TV and killing animals with high-procision rifles?
i can't help thinking about these things
as i take this turn through time
and look back at whenever the last time this happened was
when i felt this way
when i lost them all
when i left them
and they wouldn't have me back
and i rejected them
and i don't remember
how it all goes down
i just know i don't ever really want to let go of anything
if i have to hold onto anything
i want it all
i'd really rather just drift off on an iceburg and let it all go
but we're never offered such clean extremes in life
always such smaller
more exacting choices
so i'll keep knitting
keep twiddling my thumbs
all my fingers
not doing anything
or maybe looking for the key
to open the door
to please god
or get me out of here.