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satanicdoctor Profile
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mistakes.




(note: this poem's pretty personal. Everything that I mention occurred. That does not, however, mean I still feel this way, and I am grateful for that, heh.)

. . . . . .


I stayed at your place the night before you
and I were to go see some old friends from
our previous boarding school graduate.

The day before still sits complexly in my
mind: the remembrance of an omen in it: that
day: when I threw that dumb chair across a

room during study hall and walked out of
that joke of a school for the last time; well,
eventually I’d have to walk through those doors

again but by then so much had happened in my
life that I learned how easy it was to totally
disconnect from all of it if all of it was bad;

if your personal history was patterned with
failure, and there were no good things to
make you doubt the shittiness: so, yeah: I

stormed out, walked a couple blocks down
past ROCKEFELLER PLAZA, where that morning
we the both of us had breakfast, intimately
shared some stale, anonymous muffin purchased

from a street vendor. It was a sad moment
because I thought I wasn’t going to see you
until tomorrow, and at that point we had

grown quite attached to one another and even
a day felt like eternity. So, yeah, I walked
on and slowly unwound and slowed to an amble

and ambled into CENTRAL PARK and sat on a bench
and smoked a cigarette and looked at the clouds
and then went to lay down on a rock with my

backpack as a pillow and allowed myself
to become drowsy and sleep. I slept for
two hours and then left the park and went

somewhere to buy lunch and masticated in
silence, afterwards throwing away my trash
and moving in the direction of home. So,

yeah, I thought I was going to meet you at
your place the next day and then from there
go to our friends’ graduation ceremony but

you were at my place when I returned. When
I opened the door and closed it with a hard
shut I saw that the futon was still out and

then I heard your smiling voice light out from
either the kitchen or the bathroom in the den,
I forget which. Things have gotten so blurry,

memories---the past, the indifference of a past
that has affected me so much, its discontinuity
all the more torture---that it’s hard to recall

how things went down---but, I’ll do the best
I can. For example: I remember this: I remember
being high on ambien that I stole from your

purse and bitching about my parents to your parents
who most likely found it extremely unbecoming,
especially after they spoke with them and most

likely had a pleasant conversation that did not
sync up well with my own painted picture of my
mother and of my father as monstrous people:

beasts, oh yes, and I caught in the drama of their
own guile and selfishness: people so rotten that
they were beyond hope: and with nothing at all like

unconditional love for their son, a thief. It was a
way to fill my life with intrigue, I guess. Pf. How
juvenile. Was I a Negative Nancy being? You betcha.

I barely remember what I said, but I do remember,
clear as crystal, when your parents drove off and
you pressed your hands against the window and looked

at me helplessly: I remember the sadness in your face,
as I always seem to remember things I have done and
which have saddened you, with guilt. So, yeah, you

ended up being at my place when I got back. You said
you wanted it to be a surprise, and I was grateful for
the sentiment, but did not let you know. We took the

train the next day. I remember always taking the train
to see you, and find it strange that you rarely did this
for me; then again, things, this subject, the hurt that

is in this subject has taken so long for me to get a grip
on because the memories have gotten so grey and muddled
that it’s useless to assign blame for one thing or another---

the arguments, the unabashed love, the triumphs of self-
examination, the falsities, the truths that made me weep
on your thigh---on either you or I, even though for years

I have seen no error in anything you did, still, you’re
fallible, I realize, and that’s OK. I’ve come to the
conclusion that it was predominantly my fault and somewhat

your fault, but, really, that’s oversimplifying. Faults,
finding faults, is not something I like spending time on,
and in a way I can’t expect to know why I did certain

things and can only expect myself to act better next time
around. Anyway, the train ride was pleasant. I looked out
the window onto the landscape of DUTCHESS COUNTY. A two

hour ride on METRO NORTH. It was a particularly
saturated SUMMER, or, more like an end of SPRING.
It was like everything made love with everything,

like peace was there and final as a child in your arms.
The pollen in the air was thick, however. SUMMER, yes,
in all its grand massiveness and yet somehow the weather

seemed a bit intrusive, like things were too nakedly
set, the humidity verbose. Anyway, we got to your
house and hung out until it got late and you fell

asleep. I did not sleep that night. There was something
going on in my head that I couldn’t place and which was
exacerbated by some abnormally painful sense of failure

and stress. I tried to wake you up and tell you
how I was feeling but you didn’t wake up and just
tried to drowsily embrace me. You were sleeping on

the couch and I embraced you for a little while and
then slowly got off the couch and out of your arms
and went to the cabinet in your kitchen and yanked

a couple percs and some kpins and addies. I then
went outside to smoke and took the pills with a
glass of water I poured for myself. I got massively

fucked up not only from the pills but from some of
your weed. I don’t know what was wrong with me. Just
stupidity, selfishness. That’s all. Well, that,

and anxiety, almost knowing what was going to
happen. I walked down the street outside your
house in your neighborhood and sat slumped

against a dirt mound and looked at the stars. I looked
at the stars, vapidly, with vapid eyes: glassy eyes,
eyes preoccupied with something in my head that

they could not see but in shapes, vaguenesses.
A troubled heart’s trembling. A felt disposition
of dreamy dread, terrified in the observing of

such an evil as that which is in yourself, known
immaterially as a part of the material of you,
and yet, more you, more like you, that is, me,

for being of that very fabric, ghostly fabric. I feel
like a ghost, still, and all this existential waste in
my mind marauds what I see as real, obscures it,

still, because of that moment to come, the
next day, when I decided to fly out some window
and nearly kill myself: not for you, really, but

for the sake of knowing myself a person who can
die, who has a death in him still not lived out,
and that he is no ghost, but one who once was.
Mar/17/2012, 12:18 pm Link to this post Send Email to satanicdoctor   Send PM to satanicdoctor Blog
 
Katlin Profile
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Re: mistakes.


Hi SD,

This forum is a good place to post stuff that is "pretty personal" since only members of this board can read it. Because this piece is so personal, I am going to assume you neither need nor want critique, but are looking for general feedback. So, here goes:

Cool video. I really like this section of your poem:

. . . . It was a particularly
saturated SUMMER, or, more like an end of SPRING.
It was like everything made love with everything,

like peace was there and final as a child in your arms.
The pollen in the air was thick, however. SUMMER, yes,
in all its grand massiveness and yet somehow the weather

seemed a bit intrusive, like things were too nakedly
set, the humidity verbose.

I know that train ride, think I was (t)here that summer you describe. Definitely can relate to "Negative Nancy being" and "A troubled heart’s trembling."

The ending takes my breath away:

. . . . I feel
like a ghost, still, and all this existential waste in
my mind marauds what I see as real, obscures it,

still, because of that moment to come, the
next day, when I decided to fly out some window
and nearly kill myself: not for you, really, but

for the sake of knowing myself a person who can
die, who has a death in him still not lived out,
and that he is no ghost, but one who once was.

Yes, monsters and ghosts, of such stuff are sleepless nights made. Terreson, the owner of this board, has a saying, "Going to the roar." Damn hard to do. He once wrote a post, "Advice," about the background of that saying:

http://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t1540

I think in this piece you have gone to the roar. Thank you for sharing this with us.

Last edited by Katlin, Mar/19/2012, 7:45 am
Mar/17/2012, 8:17 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
vkp Profile
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Re: mistakes.


Doc: This poem seems huge to me in so many ways and I am humbled by it and graced by the invitation to read it -- implicit in your posting it for us. It is achingly real and beautiful too. I, like Kat, am blown away by the ending. This part, too, is espcially powerful for me:

It was like everything made love with everything,

like peace was there and final as a child in your arms.
The pollen in the air was thick, however. SUMMER, yes,
in all its grand massiveness and yet somehow the weather

seemed a bit intrusive, like things were too nakedly
set, the humidity verbose.

I think I will long hence think of the phrase, "verbose humidity" when feeling hemmed in by the fat blather of an unbearable summer's day intruding on my soul.

Thank you for posting this.
Mar/25/2012, 1:17 pm Link to this post Send Email to vkp   Send PM to vkp Blog
 


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