Almost Free

i cannot possibly have as much time left as
i have already wasted, yet you are
so much less imperfect than I ever was

but now they are about to let me free
out of the Tower of London, out of Alcatraz
my days having to please Queen Mary of Scots
my days having to please Al Capone
and all the other fucked up power figures
within iron bars: over—

My arms and legs unchained again,
my brain unwashed,
my brain so dirty.

i can now cure all my pimples at once
or blind every single eye on Earth for that matter,
or go live alone in a Saharan mirage.

i can learn to waltz now,
i can wear the bolo tie,
play the clarinet, eat olives, love you,
flow with the River Nile,
go with the wind,
return with the birds of passage

and now that i am almost free
i want you, i want the ocean
i already want you back.

i cannot possibly have as much time left as
i have already wasted, let me take your hands
and set you free too, let me take you on a picnic

in my (deformed) line of sight,
my (damaged) train of thought
or

my (semi-monastic) home,
where I compare none of my imperfections
to yours

and where all my imperfections are allowed to remain
absolutely unrestrained.

I should be writing an Advanced Writing essay now. In fact, I should've written that Advanced Writing essay weeks ago. In fact, to the Abyss with the Advanced Writing essay.

When you have to write the poem, you have to write the poem.

The Gazelle's Gaze

Your eyes
are not huge
they are not an emerald green
are not an ocean blue
are not a raincloud gray
your eyes are not huge—

Your gaze
is not a gazelle’s gaze
it does not pierce me
does not cut through my heart
does not spill my blood
and drink it up.

Instead your glance
falls upon my body
falls upon my soul
falls upon my ideal self
like a single autumn leaf
its color the softest red
its arms wide open
-its fall so slow, so unharmful
you think you might injure it
with your own gaze, you think
it rejects gravity-
and when the soft red leaf reaches the soil
against a backdrop of Mount Fuji
Mother Earth moans in pleasure
as if touched by her true lover
on just the right spot.

Your gaze
is not a gazelle’s gaze
it is not unforgiving
it appreciates
it gives me the most clear shave
it ties my ties
it is a hand upon my shoulder
a hand in my hand
I don’t have to look at it
through a mirror
I don’t have to worship it.

Your gaze is warm,
your gaze is good
its only misdeed is that it terribly confuses me
with all its merciful qualities:
This is not the way
I have been taught.