Over the many voices
filling our electric world with simple thoughts,
wafting arguments over movie stars and dinner,
I hear a pure voice, her Queen's English
and open soul draws me, makes me want
to sing a thousand songs my life
held back like a breaching dam, not whole
not even wanting to hold anymore.
I was trained in the perfect cadence;
a language only of the mind who turns art into pain,
creativity into lost books too distant
to hold a name like mine. Hers is the voice
tearing open those books, shouting
"I am here and I love; I want to love all
without definitions, not as possession our world
programs us to have from early age:
Barbie-mine. Boyfriend-mine. Husband-mine."
Once in my life I would have wanted her
as my possession, my perfect wife retired from
all the world's view as a secret. Then, as if
from a prescient siren I wrote
"No one owns the sky" and there she was,
as if I asked for proof of my own words
and Providence stepped in and said "Here.
This is what you meant." I hold a mirror
to my face, looking at a reflection aged
from years of battle with the world, years of
silence imposed by me borne of dread
or fear that I would become a wastrel, lost
singing songs only to myself and a cheap bottle
that would give me life until it killed me.
As I write again, the reflection changes,
the young hopeful man I was comes back
with fanfare of words I never thought I'd compose.
You are my muse now, through your openness
I let in many I would have shied from much like
a bunny shies from human touch. We may love one day.
Passions enrapting us finding perfection in
sexual desire not by any definition but
just as nature would have it in itself.
I would never want to own you, never place
the yolk of culture that holds silent
the million million voices who want to sing but cannot.
You are the air that gave me back
the youth of song I almost put away like baseball cards,
each capturing an image too high to be reached.
You are the courage that scares away
the demons long held in fear of rejection.
You are my friend, my friend, and in that
whatever time or the world hands me belongs
to all. We have written together too and
in that duet I found the voice long buried and forgotten.
You are you. And thank you for that.