/ Psychedelia /
But what am I ?
Perhaps, a chapel of remembrances - of overdramatic monologues, of sun-streaked smiles and palliative words
When I first confessed my love for you,
I had preconceived notions of how my afflictions would cause me to relent
How the confession would be a rite of passage, a coming of age
And maybe it was. Maybe it was.
But it was so many things. So so many things. It was a second Genesis.
A very un-primeval, postmodern one.
It was a moment of grace, the way Flannery O' Connor taught me.
I could, in that moment transcend sanctification or whittle into stripped apostasy
It was as if I had impaled the sky and the blunt, burnt holes along its nudity
Were a testament to my psychedelia.
If by psychedelia, you mean the way I now find relics of you in everything remotely, distantly, subtly peaceful
If by psychedelia, you mean the way I metamorphose words into paperback cities I'd wager for you
If by psychedelia, you mean the way I imagine us - two little children running away from their napalm childhoods into fairytale sidewalks and firework skies. Untouched. Fireproof.
And if by psychedelia, you mean something along the stunted lines of love.
In the 3 older drafts of this poem that I have since discarded, there was this line
That I find myself oddly attached to -
"Then maybe, with all these words as splinters of wood and my life as the fundament,
I am attempting to build you a memorial, a shrine of sorts, "
You see, I imagine (rather optimistically) that a couple of years from now
Having known well, the landscape of sorrow, we will slip into a mutual medium of joy
And on a fine evening, watching the Mississippi sunset
We will retrieve these words, words from a reticent, pretentious girl
Addressed to a philosophical, tragically beautiful boy
And you will realize how we have waited - my words and I,
In dear anticipation of you - your smile and you.
You came to me, very distinctly, like a staccato pitched in the dark from the west
for undomesticated wayfarers to taste
You reminded me of the warm smell of ancient holiday homes on long coastlines,
Of oversized, hand-knit sweaters that last a bit too long
And of the finiteness of the English language in its inability to capture you
And I, like light gone translucent or a waned temple bell or a forgotten folk song
Rushed to mend what parts of me I could ~
The rebellious, problematic daughter part,
The unbothered sister part, the unattractive nerd part,
You get the pattern.
And what am I now ?
Perhaps, a poet of ash and abstraction and I would like the poster of this poem
To say "I love you" in bold, uppercase letters with the finer print reading, "Forever. Always."
Isn't this how riots begin ?
Ash and Abstraction || 13.10.2021