[X] Spero, Exaspero

[Eryk Salvaggio]

This is destined to be
a mediocre poem.
There is no poetry here
where this comes from:
the energy is absorbed
not produced, the beauty
forced and pushed out
in some desperate attempt
to trap this world
in your words-

If I cannot speak to you
If I cannot speak for you
If I cannot speak of this
as your translator;
If I cannot make your eyes
take form in these words
then there is no reason
to type them;

But I type them. Something says:
force it out, even if you're faking.
Even if it's all a fraud, even if
you're not really brave for this
but covering up the time
until you can sit beside her-
whoever she is- and weep.

    What slows down
    a hurricane? Because that
    is in my tears tonight;
    whatever droplets are left
    from heaven, when the clouds
    begin to collapse, and the sky
    starts to tell you: "come out,
    come out, the night is gone!"

There is no poetry
where this comes from;
where the poetry should be
a force to move you outward
when the poetry should be
a welcome sign to a landscape
of Grace- instead:
it is a distraction from God
and all it's loving abundance
a distraction from seeing
your own life for what it is:
a series of interrupted
lonelinesses, a lifetime
of impossible desires:

    To be understood completely,
    To know how to love perfectly,
    To love perfectly,
    To be loved perfectly,
    To produce the caffeine internally
    To produce the alcohol internally
    To push the boundaries of your spirit
    To become an explosion;
    To be
        an ocean forever on the brink of parting
        a dying Christ never resurrected
        that song you only catch the end of
            on the radio;
        the whole world is on its last breath
            and you and I are always catching
            its disease;
    To never pretend to be its cure
            which is nothing less
                than death, and even God
                cannot save us then;
   
    If my poems could cure death,
        I would burn them.

If I cannot speak to you
If I cannot speak for you
If I cannot speak of this
as your translator;
If I cannot make your eyes
take form in these words
then there is no reason
to type them.

    It is that time of year
    for the apples to be ripe.
    They fall all over the yard
    near the highway.

    I have been waiting for you
    to come and pluck them
    from their branches,
    but you never came,
    so I never went. Now,

    From the window,
    the shadows are cast long
    over blades of grass
  
    The apples turning brown
    grows the grass higher
    until it grows over me.

There is no poetry
where this comes from;
where the poetry should be
a force to move you outward
when the poetry should be
a welcome sign to a landscape
of Grace;
    all I am is waiting
    as the sun goes down again
    all I am is waiting-

(I only write them
for you to say you love them)

    until I've distracted myself
    to death;

There is no poetry
where this comes from;
    If my poems could cure death,
        I would burn them.




-e.