The Mechanical Boy

This is an ode to a mechanical boy
Who hid from the world in the way he knew how
When flesh and bone could bring him no joy
And being a boy was too hard, too hard

Here he is standing in a room, and within
When no one is watching we see how he changes
Slowly the skin is no longer his skin
And where once there were fingers now a wire dangles

With each minute passing, his flesh growing tougher
It appears that his arms will no longer function
He watches and waits, with no desire to suffer
And so they come off with tubes to replace them

The doctors stand by with their mouths all agaping
They can't understand the boy's transformation
They can't see the heart now is no longer beating
For there in its place is a standard transmission

Each day observe how the boy turns to metal
And each night his organs transmute into parts
That work so that he doesn't feel but a little
And keep what is fragile from falling apart

In My Studio

I gaze down the lip
Of an empty bottle
I guess I've learned
Something from this
But what is it...?
And I stare at his hands
So far away
Around her waist
And it's cold in here
In my studio

There is nothing
I wouldn't do
For him

So I play my guitar
And the words
Empty my soul
It's plain to me
What has happened
Mmmm...
But I still wait
And I still listen
For the telephone
And I hate to admit
I'm still crying over it.

There is nothing
I wouldn't give
To him

12/13/10

Raising the Flag So High You Can't Reach It

He’s got me wrapped around his finger without even trying or caring to --his movements memorizing me as he walks about in his ways, with closeless closeness, standing nearby as he talks to me, always at arms length as I approach,

a tenderness that’s neither missing nor present, making me jealous when he’s away, causing me to question everything about myself, I drop everything for the smallest request, yet demanding nothing and imposing always, I will bend over backwards at his beck and call,

going into debt to feed him, waiting at night in case he comes calling, checking my phone for his texts during the day, trying to make plans and not be disappointed if he doesn’t come through, granting him every concession and expecting nothing of him

when he returns my favor it is the sweetest thing to me, the most honest and wonderful gift to be offered a ride or a bunch of bananas from the grocer, and still i am

impossibly situated between love, friendship, and hatred; he can’t love me and i can’t love him, because despite the time we have spent together at the courts or on the sofa I do not exist to him beyond being a cup of tea or a dvd or a stax record

yet I still rest my thoughts on him, smiling, laughing, thinking about his words, like when he follows me from room to room telling me stories as I get ready in the morning and I leave the house feeling completely elated, that nothing could go wrong for me

until i dread the inevitable time when we won’t have this, this, what we have, this friendship, this immaterial thing that is binding me to him and meaning nothing at all

am i flesh and blood or just a ghost helping him along, making him tea?