Tomorrow evening I’m going to do a hypnotherapy session to find out what messages I received as a child that drive me to seek unavailable men. I’m pretty excited to get in there. More than any of the other stories that form the substance of my unconscious, this is the one that wants to be heard, taking its place as the singular story driving my creation. My unconscious wants to squeeze all my juice, everything, even tasteless pulp, from this story. I want all of life to emerge from this story. So, what’s left of me after the men?
You men are my instruments. You're the bodies between my thoughts, hopes, desires and ----------words. But because of this new feminist era, and how much you've been worshipped for centuries, I've fatigued of many of you. You gay men and your obsessions with yourselves and other men, the way you can consume and collect each other with unceasing appetites, and perhaps because of how you gay men wanted to collect me, too, in a long line of little toys, a doll amongst muscled plastic soldiers, I tired of worshipping all you men, but the more I repossess myself, the less you men become my instruments, your bodies my violins, piano keys, even racquets, singing out my poems, thick plastic strands between desire and rippling meadows of universe.
I don't want to talk about you men too much—my materials, my obsessions—most of you don't like to be my material anyway, you run from my pen, from my hands, "just a bum" one of you claimed. Maybe you run from being reduced to my strands of wolfish hair streaked with worried grey, my unruly soldiers, my protruding bellies from summer beer, my wildly shy eyes that never settle on one view too long in case it engulfs you. How I love you men. My strings, my chords, my clay, my sticks, my fountains, my fields, my conductors, my charge.
(I am the the water)
You men, I don't like it when you cover my eyes, bend my bow, conduct too much and eclipse my body, pull me away from poems becoming difficult and dense with form and personality. I like us to stay two magnets held opposite each other by a thick bowed wire, pulled toward one another with the force of God itself... but never touching. Between us, in the nothingness, time and space bend toward creation, all life is formed there, we eternally remain in the moment before the Big Bang. I am more than you men. I am more. I must be. I'm the creator.”
That is the type of thing that my mind writes on an idle Sunday afternoon staring out at the prairie sky. Have you ever seen that kind of sky before? It’s infinite. Have you ever felt addicted before? Like if you just got the thing, the taste, the fusion, the union, you'd be complete? Beyond the men, the beyond the drive to use them as instruments, beyond the music I make with their essence, my unconscious is also made of that infinite. My unconscious was formed on land that never stops trying to kiss the sky; ssshh listen to soft fingers of long, gingerly grasses rustling out birds to greet the blue believing just over the next hill is a meeting, a kiss, earth to earth, ocean to ocean, dust to dust.
(I am the water)