The Sound of One Story Clapping
And aren't we are so then so rarely
The hero in another's story
When we want to be.
And why are we so always
Rounding stories on the heroes
Who don't want to be?
And aren't we are so then are so rarely
Heroes in each others' stories,
And wish for sounds of two
Stories making love?
Todd doesn't does he want to be
The hero listening to these stories.
But still he is isn't he by being one
I want to hear the secrets
Told enchantingly in the gray
Aren't they arched doorways with vines
Coral colored blooming and
Dark wine. His listening
Creates it does the beauty
For the stories to appear on,
Boldness that to make
Them happen so much poetry
Out here, it's hard to live.
I am scraped and burned
And thin and coughing
To make the most intense and dreaming
Aren't they stories
With beginnings and fast endings
Cruel to all the needs to stay
And live inside them—
gone as soon as the scene's made
real inside as violently
as necessary. Love, I'm gone,
I'm not no nowhere til I tell
Your stories behind scarves to you
And will you listen, will you turn
Gradually away and arch vertebrae
By vertebrae in the doorway arched,
Way away, down and up and gone
But gray and coral colored
And dark wine.
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Author's Note
I wrote this poem of uncommon musical syntax around 1988 when on break from the Iowa Poetry Workshop, and wandering desert mirages of intensity, cactus, scintillating stones, and lonely passion.
I think that often a fair amount of poetry, fiction, diary-writing, photography, and little songs we compose along the way -- is like this -- we hope or fantasize that one special person, our muse, will read it. Someone who probably won't. A muse overheated in the sun of our desire to delight someone other than ourselves. The desire for the incredible poetic moment to be shared and exclaimed over with wide eyes, not evaporate into the heat.
"A muse overheated in the sun"--indeed! Reminds me of e.e.cummings. Lots of fun here.