The Silent Treatment

so
that's it, huh.
everything is dust.
smiles, rusty
slowly curl at the corners
like old newspaper
holding tightly to yesterday's news
as if to re-read the stories
the names
the crime scenes
the box scores
isn't worth the effort.
as if nostalgia
memory
happiness
incoherent sonnets
dedicated
inspired
and informed
by your very breathing of this air
aren't worth their weight in ink.
what was I thinking?
how could I have thought that even
without the passion
the turmoil
the stifling, steaminess
the liberating thoughtfulness
the slow-motion crawl
of time's winking giggle
without the naivety
the blinders
the one-liners
the stone pillars
the telephones, journals,
the soft-pedaled flashing eyes
the little eveyday choices
what to wear, see, say, do, touch, smell, breath, live;
without the flagship "Insanity"
on which I refuse to hang my rain drenched sails
still floating offshore
how could I have thought that
by becoming reasonable, rational, non-confrontational, passive,
unassumingly respectful of the sanctity of your position, acceptant of my fate
the cards dealt to me, the games and argumentary inner turmoil
seized and dealt with and worked on and mulled over and observed and
discussed and set aside and learned from
how could I have thought that that might reassure you
that I would not be some nemesis
some overwrought loser cowering sheepishly in your misunderstood shadow
that life does go on
that sometimes things just are
that it's all right to just sit and watch the wheels spin sometimes
how could I have thought that your memory would be as selective
as your willingness to just look me in the eye
not like you look at a car speeding toward you
a deadline careening your way
a nearly spent hurricane crushed into a heavy breeze
already blown past
spitting nothing but shade upon your coveted sunsplashed earth,
not the way you crinkle your eyes
at a taste gone sour
a light too bright
a thought too painful
but as you look at a photo from the past
a vacation you took when you were a kid
the beaches, the bee stings,
the postcards, the interminable car ride
the laughter always louder than the tears\
"Smiling uses fewer muscles than frowning."

am I that big of an ogre
a dangerous
ranting fool?
am I not just a sponge of emotion?
a bucket of intensity
a spill of overcooked sensitivity?
oh, how silly of me to finally ignore you
you who would never take the plunge into forgiveness
the dive into sustained civility
the break with your fractured mirror
of my selfishness
my failure
my opaque rose-colored glasses.
how could I have thought that
we could
still be
friends.

what was I thinking?
that you cared
that you understood
that for a glimmer of an instant
what happens to my heart and soul and mind
strikes a tiny note of compassion
that the way you judge a person's humanity
is somehow weighed in relation to the depth of their feeling
their struggle and desire to overcome their demons
their tendency to offer of their hearts and time and ears
to you when you are needy.
so I guess I either don't measure up
or you could give a fuck.
just something else I must accept.
I ask for nothing
no secrets
no revelations
not even that look
or that skin
or that laugh.
no commitment
no loyalty
no payoff
no gamble or risk.
I just refuse
to allow
you to despise
my memory.
as if I had a choice.
what was I thinking?
friend.
look it up.

-- Fall 1996