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Brian Fuchs Poem
I was prepared to become you for so long and yet I've simply become me.
Your words pound in my head, hollow drums beating low words streaming on about people I
wish I could have made love to.
Here in my universe, the one containing only fragments of the Frank O'Hara I was meant to
become,
I meet new people, but few artists and wonder still how to make you proud.
I'm secretly lost, confused, wanting to find the path I started out on so confidently, but
crawling helplessly on the floor.
If living this life means staying myself, I'll accept it and move on, powered by your
words and those of Joe Brainard,
of James Schuyler and again of [especially] you.
Alaska cannot make Frank O'Haras; life is too scattered, each person blowing in the wind
towards an unknown destination.
There is only change and nothing seems to settle. There is far too much money.
I would have fantasized about you [more] if you were around today, but I will meet up with
you again when we've both returned as lesbians or cats or both.
To fall in love with a person who died thirteen years before I was born seems dimwitted,
but my destiny is to discover my soulmate and know it is you.
Become me instead, as I am not becoming you well. Sink into me through your words, which
I spend countless hours devouring,
Meld to me through osmosis, your loves of art and of men finding their way into my heart.
Fragments are powerful when those fragments are of you.
Copyright © Brian Fuchs | Year Posted 2008
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Brian Fuchs Poem
Keeping in mind that this day belongs to Lori,
I raise a glass to her and wish ceremonious,
but insincere, blessings for the coming year.
Bitterly following behind her, she’s dressed in yellow,
an outfit I picked out and secretly she’s always hated.
She always loved too much and kept herself hopeful to joys she’d never know.
I believe in hope, but can’t be wrapped up in it myself.
I shrink down, find my way free from expectations and remain only myself.
Drive on, yourself, towards goals and new friends.
The time has been too short for sentiment and I simply offer nothing.
The dinners and the hours of longing are more distant than time itself;
they fade quickly into beige thoughts, pure and happy, but forgotten.
Copyright © Brian Fuchs | Year Posted 2008
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Details |
Brian Fuchs Poem
Fridays of impatience, of expectancy,
of spacing out to Mahler.
I can hardly take time for trivial goings-on,
with all my superiority taking over.
I'm too busy now for you to talk
to me, for you to wait silently
for my response to the nonsense of
your lingering questions and yet I
feel your stare and impending lack of sex
if I don't at least try to make you
feel important, needed, relevant.
A familiar tune goes through my mind and
triumphant words find the paper --
epiphanies, great heralding bits of brillinace
and yet you keep waiting for me to respond.
Copyright © Brian Fuchs | Year Posted 2008
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