| Accompanies |
He sang while in his car, that slow
monotonous rhythm all nasal and humorous
and however serious the lyrics I always laughed.
Dust blew through the vents, and I coughed in anger
as he proposed the idea of me cleaning his car.
We both smiled knowingly, a secretive manner well used.
I was his first real girlfriend and he, in his reverie,
man-handled that idea in his well-preserved fantasies.
But he was really my mentor, for I wasn't the sophisticated one.
He was strong in the way he reach out to grasp my hand,
teaching me, rather he was aware of the process or not,
how to transform my feminist views into formalized actions and ideas.
He was strange, not in a bad way, and he taught me
how unique I was inside, in spite of my facade of "normality."
Always conjuring half-witted, cynical retorts
to my efforts to make him "normal" and "acceptable."
Two peas in a pod we were, two enigmas yet to be transformed.
And in a way we both inspired it, we inevitably changed one another.
He, showing me the intricate beauties of my inner-most being,
and pointedly harassing me to let go of my hard-up notions
of utmost control over every aspect of my materialistic existence.
And I, fervently trying to teach him the required dating etiquette
and profusely denying him any smitten chance to ever crawl
back into himself, I adored him for who he was and that made all the difference.
We were both starving artists of our own accord,
two meticulous souls intertwined and lost in the impeccable desire to fit in.
Two sensitive people who crossed paths and rocked the waves
that set our lives into opposite directions in that moment in time,
a covenant that set into our hearts a new understanding...
A tiny glance to grasp a chance to be in trinity with ourselves and the world,
a lesson about learning who we both were, separating that from
loathing expectations and disappointed fragments of our past, a chance
to flourish into what we otherwise could have only hoped to become.
Appearing in Anonymous Confessions, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2006
monotonous rhythm all nasal and humorous
and however serious the lyrics I always laughed.
Dust blew through the vents, and I coughed in anger
as he proposed the idea of me cleaning his car.
We both smiled knowingly, a secretive manner well used.
I was his first real girlfriend and he, in his reverie,
man-handled that idea in his well-preserved fantasies.
But he was really my mentor, for I wasn't the sophisticated one.
He was strong in the way he reach out to grasp my hand,
teaching me, rather he was aware of the process or not,
how to transform my feminist views into formalized actions and ideas.
He was strange, not in a bad way, and he taught me
how unique I was inside, in spite of my facade of "normality."
Always conjuring half-witted, cynical retorts
to my efforts to make him "normal" and "acceptable."
Two peas in a pod we were, two enigmas yet to be transformed.
And in a way we both inspired it, we inevitably changed one another.
He, showing me the intricate beauties of my inner-most being,
and pointedly harassing me to let go of my hard-up notions
of utmost control over every aspect of my materialistic existence.
And I, fervently trying to teach him the required dating etiquette
and profusely denying him any smitten chance to ever crawl
back into himself, I adored him for who he was and that made all the difference.
We were both starving artists of our own accord,
two meticulous souls intertwined and lost in the impeccable desire to fit in.
Two sensitive people who crossed paths and rocked the waves
that set our lives into opposite directions in that moment in time,
a covenant that set into our hearts a new understanding...
A tiny glance to grasp a chance to be in trinity with ourselves and the world,
a lesson about learning who we both were, separating that from
loathing expectations and disappointed fragments of our past, a chance
to flourish into what we otherwise could have only hoped to become.
Appearing in Anonymous Confessions, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2006
| ~A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warn the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl.~ Anne Sexton |
| Stacy Lynn Mar |