TODAY’S POEM: Love among the Shadows. You and I will travel far together; you and I are growing old together. Watch the evening star together. We may never get to heaven, but it’s heaven at least to try... Words I barely remember from a song I have been singing in the shower these days. They haunt me in sleep, or... even in wakeful tete-a-tete at burger shops. Despite the recent surgery to fix my bum heart. A Heart’s Love Song, this. (Yup, still recovering. Is why I have this serenade for my inamorata who doubles these days as my nurse, my Florence Nightingale. Get it? Hey, I want to live a little more. OK?) THE FINAL CONVERSATION (For Nicky) Words in their primary or immediate signification stand for nothing, but the ideas in the mind of him that uses them. ---John Locke 1. Questions and Caveats Are you talking to me? Are you writing to me? Answers to questions you pitch into the dark are meanings I assign to the questions you ask. Always, you and I, will be at opposite ends of a half-lit hallway where echoes are as urgent as the tremulous confessions we burden ourselves with each time we look at our blurred reflections on the one-way mirrors we look into when hiding hurts hurled like hunting knives at target trees. When I call you, I mean to quickly hold you down, to find your voice, to shape your feelings, to own your thoughts, to mould you as I want to have you. I interpret you through my own lenses and mirror you as you would me and have our confluence in this reflection, a dragging into a cold dungeon of thought constructing meaning instead of finding it, and the “You” becomes the “I” held in bondage. Except that in this conquest, I lose everything. Questions and answers become elusive phantoms of meaning, configurations of troth to the other turn into fantasy, dreams and desire but delusions. 2. The Consummation of an Ecstasy If the dreaded hurts we abandoned on the trail were memories that needed to be closed like doors that must not open again; if they were cut up bodies of ghosts whose bleeding were balm to raw wounds we sport around as insignias of deathless lovers guised in the defiant faces of lovelorn clowns masked in scowls standing in for love and laughter; if we are finally done, after all these years, with hate as masquerades of despair and burning need; if we swear here, now, and onto our dying days and death that we will scrape open our graves with our fealty and unquenchable love; then, let us die in this ecstasy. ---ALBERT B. CASUGA September 22, 2014, Glen Erin Trail, Mississauga
Posted on: Tue, 23 Sep 2014 01:19:40 +0000
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