aaronwrixon.com

kate, play for me or else my heart will burst.
these tears would swell and overflow their dam,
and since i am by fragile humor cursed,
since music stabs the core of who i am,

the “moonlight,” kate, if only just the first,
favorite, movement: play it now, and slow.
i long to be in sadness well immersed
so let it from your old piano flow,

and play, kate, play, for i’m of love bereft,
but i would sooner let the music seem
to roil my muddy heart than need admit
i’m crying for the other life i left,
and she who, once in some forgotten dream,
knew the “moonlight,” and was quite fond of it.

Get inside Aaron’s head. Subscribe to the blog feed and have posts sent to your feed reader.

before the walls between us turn to dust,
before our souls commune in naked bliss,
before we are consumed by fires of lust,
before we lock these lips in heaven’s kiss,

before we fall to bed, our limbs entwined,
before we stay awake to greet the morn,
before we leave these earthly shells behind,
before we die in love and are reborn,

there’s work to do, my sweet, so steel your heart —
if we go forward there’s no turning back.
we cannot close again an opened door;
we can’t resile from that we choose to start.
before we wished we’d tried another tack,
should we stay safe instead in this ‘before?’

Get inside Aaron’s head. Subscribe to the blog feed and have posts sent to your feed reader.

when next you’re with him,
ask “am i sure this is he,
or has my lover
changed his shape, assumed the form
and the countenance
of the man who shares my bed?
whose hands, these, that set
my skin afire, whose lips bathe
my face in kisses,
who, hard inside me, makes to
rend my soul apart?
have you usurped the throne, thief,
stolen into my
house, as my heart, and assumed
the seat of power?”
“yes,” i will answer, “but say
nothing; this secret is ours.”

Get inside Aaron’s head. Subscribe to the blog feed and have posts sent to your feed reader.

“i’m a bad buddhist,”
you said. “when enlightenment
seems so far away,
it’s harder to think of eight
and easier one.”
“love calls you by your name” played
on the stereo
in the corner of the room.
large flakes of snow fell
past the balcony outside,
each one different,
each a zen signifier,
like the haiku books,
the cohen in the corner,
and the sad, dusty
altar in the hall alcove.
“hon, you’re not a bad buddhist,”
i said, jealously
eyeing the roach smoldering
between your fingers.
“you’re not a buddhist at all.”
as if i’d slapped you,
the tears welled hot in your eyes,
but before you cried
i asked, “isn’t that what it’s
all about, this shit —
always striving, yet never
attaining the goal?”
you started, “i thought you meant…”
and i cut you off.
“maybe, but i’m drunk and high
and my tongue is a
traitor bent on my downfall.”
so i crawled to you,
splayed, languid, on the sofa,
and i hooked my thumbs
in the hips of your panties,
slowly slid them off,
and kissed an apology.
“wild horses” came on, and
“that’s more like it,” i said. “now
fuck me, you bad buddhist, you.”

Get inside Aaron’s head. Subscribe to the blog feed and have posts sent to your feed reader.

i know what it’s like
to crave someone, anyone
— everyone — lonely one;
the heart dies when not compelled,
and the dying heart
can’t divine tell the difference
between that which could
abate its misery and
that which would simply cause more.

Get inside Aaron’s head. Subscribe to the blog feed and have posts sent to your feed reader.

we give so much — but
for what, and to whom, and why? —
and lavish these gifts
on those who appreciate
so little. and yet
for we two, this is enough.
the irony is
i can’t give you what you want —
love, true happiness,
a black man in the white house —
nor can you provide for me
leftovers at lunch,
the weight of your arm on mine,
the safety i need.
lost, purposeless, we careen
through life at random —
givers, we, made now misers
by what is not ours to give.

Get inside Aaron’s head. Subscribe to the blog feed and have posts sent to your feed reader.