Trigonometry of Healing
1
started this morning;
no, maybe last night,
my memory fails easily
when it comes to this
growing of the seed;
its sprout stabbing me,
who, happily, being blind
didn’t begin to feel
the long planted germs;
never suspected
till the first bloom
of nightmare strangulation
the loss of a limb
a belief
can be a shattering time;
so while waiting
for the pieces
flying off the handle
to smash against the wall
I raged
as the needlessness of it all
I’ve been longing
for a knife across the face,
now, suddenly here it is.
my very wish come true
watch your wishes well
for any one might come true
2
a factory of timid death
sends tip-toeing whisperers
to my heaving bed,
like me, that think
that I am aware
of how there is
an end of sorts
to the longness
of this road
blood & veins
muscle & organs
skin & bones;
cogs in a tired carriage
hurtling over a cliff
I am aware
if the time it takes
to devise confusion,
to separate give from take –
give me
take me
one is for sale
the other is for free
3
how to take the poison out
without amputating the limb
has become more of a problem
than the vile poison itself
still, there is no use
in calling for a doctor,
for even if he came
the limb would be in hiding;
as it keeps in hiding from me
the reasoning of the poisoners
4
found straw in my pocket,
it’s been a long time
since anyone’s been that close;
I get the feeling
that I’m catching up
with my primitive sacrifices,
revelling in my artifices
where pagan dancers
celebrate being outside
the ruins of my past,
as pipers play blue tunes
I rolled about
in flesh-cut wheat
stuffing my pockets
with broken glass;
till it was late night
when the gleaming bastard’s song
hung hateful in the air
steaming in the lamplight;
“make another mistake,”
his choking voice sang
“the time is ripe
your grass is green”
5
taking the potency of fear
from their talk of forward
I think of backward suicide;
scarfing attention for silence
feeling silent containment
makes deeper wounds
in the palms of my hands
which is better
their small circles
or my brutal ending?
6
now that I’ve invented
a balance for the mastery
of give & take;
I wonder how much it takes
to sooth the pain it gives
to mop the butcher’s floor?
cut out my heart!
cut out my eyes!
package them in plastic;
make the product pure
make the crying laugh
make the sun moon;
I am for sale!
buy me
buy me
abuse me
use me
try me
please don’t turn your back,
for I’ll slip away,
which is the lasting I want
7
slashing once,
down my chest
then again
across my ribs;
leaving a bleeding crucifix
exasperated with
nervous expectations
of the next snail slow blow
what next?
neck?
genitals?
his halting
bumblings
scalpel dropping
make me want to grab the knife
and direct the blade more correctly,
smooth over these jagged ends,
fold the skin over the stumps
so healing leaves neat scars
in obtuse triangles & stars
where my feet done dangled
where my hands once clapped
he doesn’t want my advice
for he cuts by proxy
working in another room
where I have no say or sight,
besides his eyes perceive
much better than mine can
8
the butcher boy
poisons the meat
with his very touch;
he loves to feel
his hands know
more correctness
than any others
seeing me ready, as last,
for finally being sold
while in the same motion
being whisked
out of his reach
he fanatically makes the rounds
of all my prime cutters,
smearing them
with grimy hands
9
the damage done,
knowing he has had his share,
I still feel he’s after more;
but I am safe
until we meet
face to face;
so spread me thin
as fast as you can
for I am for sale
but so unsure
Aug 73
You can credit T. S. Eliot for my love of long, meandering, numbered section poems. Here the section numbers included the degree sign after each but WP editing suite finds that difficult to render & I’m too lazy to figure how to make it obey. Such is life. Such is the march of time too, so with some of these pieces, from nearly 50 years ago my memory is unclear.
I have a vague recollection of writing this as a single piece over the space of about a week. It, unlike some of my writing then, isn’t stitched together with various scraps. I can’t say if I wrote it in the order it appears here – though it does have definite progression. It deliberately references other poems in the book – for example ‘nightmare strangulation’ is a nod to the hangman; ‘straw in my pocket’ to Waltz.
I also play with cliché ‘flying of the handle’ ‘give & take’ ‘the damage done’ – recasting them in ironic contexts or leading them to unexpected conclusions. ‘pagan dancers’ is a reference to my paintings of the time (link) – also the dancer on the cover of the chapbook.
Reading this now I see it as another poem about coming out, about the confines of cultural butcher-boy definitions of gender, creativity, productivity. At the time I wrote this I wasn’t aware that ‘the seed’ was those various elements. Many lgbtq people create themselves from parts of the world around them – our sense of self is the result of our inner Dr. Frankenstein creating from fresh. Not that heterosexuals don’t have to do some of this but they have clearer role-models to work with. It was like being give ten model kits of various planes cars boats that had been opened up & dumped into one pile without instructions.
What parts of me have to be cut out to get to the core? I also sense this use of violence, of bloody butchery as a way to appear more masculine. Being a teenage poet is not as butch as being a teenage football star.
It also alludes to the fact that I was a cutter. Wounds that no one could see but myself. A self who also had an awareness of his suicidal thinking, which was buried in this piece. I don’t recall anyone, who read this piece or who heard me perform it, ever asking me if I was serious. I guess they thought it was a part of the poet’s pose. Artifice as opposed to a serious mental issue.
The last lines echo a favorite song if mine – ‘How can I be sure, in a world that constantly changes?’ Today I’m not afraid of being unsure – that’s one of the things that makes me human.
TOpoet 