"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


5.12.14

Not exactly forbidden

I am always hungry
& wanting to have
sex. This is a fact.
If you get right
down to it the new
unprocessed peanut
butter is no damn
good & you should
buy it in a jar as
always in the
largest supermarket
you know. And
I am an enemy
of change, as
you know. All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind
summer as a
time to do
nothing and make
no money. Prayer
as a last re-
sort. Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight. I am
absolutely in opposition
to all kinds of
goals. I have
no desire to know           
where this, anything
is getting me.
When the water
boils I get
a cup of tea.
Accidentally I
read all the
works of Proust.
It was summer
I was there
so was he. I
write because
I would like
to be used for
years after
my death. Not
only my body
will be compost
but the thoughts
I left during
my life. During
my life I was
a woman with
hazel eyes. Out
the window
is a crooked
silo. Parts
of you
I think
of as stripes
which I am
learning to
love along. We
swim naked
in ponds &
I write be-
hind your
back. My thoughts
about you are
not exactly
forbidden, but
exalted because
they are useless,
not intended
to get you
because
you love
me. It’s more
like a playground
where I play
with my reflection
of you until
you come back
and into the
real you I
get to sink
my teeth. With
you I don't know 
how to relax &
so I write
behind your
back. Which
is hard.
Nature
is out of control
you tell me &
that’s what’s so
ill about
it. I’m immoderately
in love with you,
knocked out by
your one
white hair
why should
something
I had never
known be the
very best there
is. I love
you from my
youth,
starting back
there when
one day stopped
being just like the
rest, sudden 
bond and
longing, constant
love, a light-
ning in the
middle of
the day,
a halted step
in the vastly
conventional
path of
the Sun. I
squint. I
wink. I
hesitate
before I
take the
ride.
Retailored version of Eileen Myles' “Peanut Butter”

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