the goat dreams of puella aeterna

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Dec 30, 2913 (1)

She passed you on the down stair. Erection.
Each time bullies made you cry she consoled

you, brought you close, held your boyish bottom
closer. The one adult who would not scold

you, loved you in gym shorts cut high, showing
thigh and the hint of cock and balls. Widows

hungry for flesh are either a blessing
or a curse. The way she stripped off your clothes

and took you to the bath. The way she gave
herself to you; you who were far too young

to know why, just how. You must have pleased her,
until you grew up and started to shave.

Even now you recall her hips, her tongue,
her voice crying, “like that! harder! harder!”

][][

notes:

The Peter Pan Syndrome refers to a man’s unwillingness to grow up and take on adult responsibilities. There is an entire trope of man-boy characters in literature and popular culture; in Psychology Jung called it, Puer aeternus, Latin for the eternal boy. I’m curious what the female version of the Peter Pan Syndrome might be. Not Wendy, since she spent her whole time acting as a surrogate mother, but a female archetype that optimizes Pan’s cockiness and corresponding immature behavior. The nearest that I can find is from Jung as well, puella aeterna, the eternal girl, but there aren’t any corresponding female characters that I can find in literature as example. There is such a trope in Japanese popular culture that I thought, at first, might work: the alcoholic, single, lustful office lady who is shown living in a filthy apartment, drinking herself blind every night. However, it is a poor comparison since, unlike Pan who has agency not to take on adult responsibilities if he wants, the Office Lady is the way she is due to the misogynistic atmosphere of the Japanese business industry; regardless of education or background her role in most manga and anime is to fetch coffee, fend off sexual harassment and forever cling to the bottom rung of the office ladder. Perhaps one day I’ll find who I am looking for; until then I will keep on reading.

untitled #32

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this strange winter road
a phone call from here to there
please, no, wait for me

][][

reading loss and grief
blizzard closed the airport down
stupid tarot deck

][][

my aunt said that he
screamed and screamed cave of a mouth
last morphine nightmares

][][

holding his scarred hands
warm but thin as onion skin
last days, then … after

][][

those stars I count five
the body aching pulling
but where? my love, where?

][][

the first springtime rain
ending winter, a blessing,
and you won’t be there

this is december 26, 2013

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my grandmother died right before Thanksgiving
this morning my grandfather died a few hours
after Christmas the stones of my house’s
foundations have been taken away in less
than two months I am standing but hurts so much

cinders and thigh bones

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Dec 26, 2013 (1)

Dec 26, 2013 (2)

Dec 26, 2013 (3)

staring at the sky
from a desert warm and still
abandoned child’s skull

][][

blank book pages filled with
caravan marching to hell
vultures circling

][][

let all my words burn
beacon fire for child’s soul lost
century ago

][][

simple things: laughter,
kissing, holding hands, all this
that she’ll never know

][][

written on the wind
her laughter, scent even name
has been lost to me

][][

silence before truth
before the question before
this desert’s secrets

][][

rocky hills sparsely
covered with ghosts of female
guerrilla warfare

][][

cinders and thigh bones
all girls who picked up a gun
stood up and fought back

notes:

We decided to play god, create life. When that life turned against us, we comforted ourselves in the knowledge that it really wasn’t our fault, not really. You cannot play god, then wash your hands of the things that you’ve created. Sooner or later, the day comes when you can’t hide from the things that you’ve done anymore.
—Admiral Adama, Battlestar Galactica

cast it out to me

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Dec 26, 2013 (5)

when I was 14 I vowed
never to cut my hair

again I knew all about
driving a wooden picket

pin into the ground
knotting my “never retreat”

braid around it a last
stand final repose hauteur

because it was 1044 weeks,
7305 days, 175316 hours

before chemo and if the gods
hate anything it’s cockiness

and I have no idea where
my braid went how I could

forget about something so primal
to who I thought I was and

if you find my braid cast it
out to me like I said I’d do

for you and pull me out
of the land of the dead

do I do

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you ask me what do I think about when
I touch myself but you can’t be bothered

with the other three hundred and sixty
four days of the year you ask me what do
I play on the stereo to muffle

my screams but laugh when I tell you about
singing along with the car radio

in traffic jams you ask me what do I
do when my hands tire do I roll onto
my belly to keep going but roll your

eyes when you see me writing with my kid-
like cursive you ask me what do I do

right after orgasm because you want
to get laid and think poetry somehow
will do that, as if just saying “fuck! fuck!

fuck!” enough will make it happen you ask
me but none of your poems are about

me, anyone could respond, which is why
when I say that I collapse onto my
back, mouth agape, panting. damp disheveled

hair clinging across my forehead it has
nothing to do with orgasms but with

me dying horribly on a muddy
battlefield and like my orgasms my
most cherished fantasy won’t include you