James Kleckner
To the Heart That Longs Disastrous

They said you were sick, smelling
Of ethers and impossible insanities, teeming
With bromide into the incandescent dawn
Of your four-cornered colorless room, playing
Ping-Pong among the doctors at war, walking
Shoeless and stiff-jointed and stargazed through
Third floor west ward penitentiary hallways, pleading
For loneliness and cigarettes because of their constant changelessness, hanging
Arms outstretched claiming ownership of the Stigmata, smashing
Whispering Japanese porcelain figurines against checkered linoleum, being
Chauffeured unto the nowhere midnight hour because you couldn't sleep
And he couldn't sleep and she couldn't sleep, looking
Up down left right up down left right wondering
Where the noises were coming from, listening
Closely for the next plan of action, selflessly understanding
Only to be misunderstood later, screaming
Symbolic incantations and Jabberwocky into idle ears
As they sit and watch and not and stare unthinking
Through the boundless chasm of imagination
That is your fiery mind.

Outside the rivers are freezing, the clouds
Gather gray and homeless.
You say the weather will not change, you're dying,
There is no escape.

Nineteen hundred and eighty-one miles you cry for me.

I'll wait another day, another day again I'll come again and
See you, really, I will, really. Really.
See, my feet hurt, the airline ticket too much, laundry too much
Shopping too much, homework too much, busy busy busy too much -
My love for you…

Alone, frail and catatonic in your closed-out empty room, where
You count the shadows bouncing wall to wall from fast cars, where
Security and loneliness and nurses speak to you
Offering bad advice and playing cards, where
Your boredom has outshone the sun, where
Mad and zealous you plot a revolution
Against the DSM-IV and Freud and friends and family, where
Strapped gagged bound in straps you catapult
Glorious gobs of green spit through doorways and on orderlies, where
Dr. Benway enters gravel-voiced and 1940s
Offering spinal taps, electrics and blood transfusions, where
Carefree and careless you gloriously scream anything say anything do anything, where
Staggering and slurred speech with a heart that longed disastrous
You pound on handleless doors and give up knowing where
Your mind is and why it is and wanting it that way.

Outside the streets run north and south, east and west, cars
Ride clean and perfect;
You say you want a fast car, a full tank of gas,
And no maps.

Nineteen hundred and eighty-one miles I remember you.

Vivien, I wish I were madder than you.
I wish my flat feet pressed against yours and I could feel the difference
Of all things, the
Sounds of jealous laughter after crazy proclamations, bare
Feet sliding across glossy mahogany, Chopin
Playing delicate and melancholy and symbolic while taking
Long walks down side streets and alleyways thinking
Of the caged bird and instinctively knowing why it sings, people
Yelling "crazy crazy crazy crazy: and you laughing, knowing secrets, the
Feeling of doing what you want saying what you want being who you want, voice
Nervous and excited and exhilarated talking to complete strangers
About your personal odyssey through this unrequited life
But not caring because you've been though it he's been through it
She's been through it and I've been through it, the
Feeling of nakedness in spring, summer, winter and fall, three hundred and
Sixty-five days a year
For the rest of our sorry lives, wetness
And unbrellaless in April,
Miserable hot and humid in June,
Hopeful in October, and probably
Dead in December but no caring
Vivy,
Tom has fled the country and sold himself out for the OED
And a lifetime supply of three-piece suits from Burberrys;
Maurice has fled to Africa in search of the purple lion -
I don't think he's coming back -
Vivien,
I will not leave you, for as long as you are there,
I am there,
And now we're both stuck scratching and crawling
For a way out anywhere, anytime.

<< Back to Issue 3, 2000