Eulogy to Glitter

My achilles heel is glitz and glitter. I like the stuff that paints the world in colors it is not. There are so many deep, ironic, complex sides to me
and yet I fall for the superficial and superfluous. THese things, in turn, make me like their own. I look and smell like the things I am not; the things
you can see through. And so they call me easy. Easy to look at, easy to knock over. They have no idea how heavy I really am because I'd rather they didn't
see the marble and granite that makes up my feet; the iron my bones are made of; or the painful bleeding red that the right side middle of my chest is.
No one likes to look at that sort of thing anyway. So contour and cut me; mold and undo me. Love is not made, but who asked for love? Love can't be traded
or sold or earned; it is no efficient currency. It is not dependable and often insufferable and most people don't have much of it anyway. It cannot be
wasted on me and therefore I shall not ask for it. And I don't want your feeble attempts either; give me all or give me nothing.

I am the femme fatale; I conquer without knowing it and I kneel on my new empire in tears. And yet my land's landscape is desert, green pastures are for
the less sparkling and the more happy. I can't sing the tune and I can't dance to the beat but I will make these flabby legs and feeble voice try. Forever,
forever trying.

What if I stopped? And for a moment breathed? And tapped into the endless rest that is your own perfect glory? What if you re-made me? What if you break
me? What if you melt my iron and crush my marble and expose the bleeding red? Never, never. Oh I could never. Don't touch me. My warning goes off when
you do that. My stomach turns and I always, automatically, step back. I begin to burn and I hate burning, I hate this smoldering sensation that somehow
I need you. God help me! But not really.

You come to me subtly. You must, for there are few ways to really woo me. You come to me in dinosaur shirts and coffee pots; in pixie haircuts, poems soft;
Sometimes you wear secretary glasses and sometimes you have hippie hair. Sometimes Converse and satirical stares. You have so many faces but your eyes
always come through. Different bodies, different faces, but they all just look like you.


I hate ripped converse and your satirical stare. I hate how much I like you because of both. I Wish I could say "you're my forever best friend".
i do sorta love you but not the best or most. / I don't know you but I'm pretty sure I could. The cliches of the guitar boy are lost on you.
Wish I could say "you're my forever best friend", but I decided I won't till you do.

Deep and dear are the profundities to which my love for you plummets - but its outworkings stay so disgustingly close to the surface. I cannot know
how to delve deeper, and the culture you set me in doesn't help much with that. I beg you for an intimacy that I cannot know with any other human being,
and I surrender to you all of my desires - the sweetest and most precious my desire for love and companionship in a man. It is so old and cliche to you -
it must be. Girls for centuries have been giving up these desires to you. I offer my heart to you, Lord, as a gift, and I will have to offer it every
single day until I'm with you for real. I cannot pretend that I do not have them, which has been my plan of action until now. Simultaneously with this
realization has come a craving for a closeness with you that I know that man, whoever he is, will never fulfill. I cannot know love again unless my love
pours forth from a fountain that I already have with you. In fact, this concrete love can never really come close. Help me out there.

good men sleep and bad men too and the grey faeries dance on your dreams.

Breaking up and breaking down and everything in between that involves cracking.
Shacking and sacking.
Bending and lending.
Battering me, I’m just shy of shattering.
I am the bearer of bad tidings, and destiny’s not much worth fighting
for when you’re the blind bat behind the barrel of a gun.
Target is far; get
a grip and sip a while
on the venom of power souring your shallow soul.
Thieving and receiving this city moves on.
Stepping time or stepping out is your choice.
Don’t imagine for yourself the liberation of a voice.
Sublime, she smiles and the paint creases just a tad in those well-worn smile lines.
She wants you, and quick.
Time for the trees or the thick
opinionated factless political umbilical cords that board us while telling us we’re free.
So lower me down on this faulty lever, lady, severing all ties and brook me no refusal.
Your abuse’ll suffice.

Capably disabling the sable that adorns the thorns of my person, you rehabilitate the saint in me.

The rules of rhyme and reason escape me
She seasons your silence with the violence of the glare stare
Stop! Don’t you look her in the eyes, cruel surprise on the other side of the rippled wave she behaves her quiet act
Fact! You follow her and you ain’t never coming back.
Villain of yesteryear is retired, livin in Goodyear
because an honest hardworking bad man’s out of a job these days.
Lilting and silting the quicksand over your eyes and ears and other faculties
Tilting, your world is tilting
Grey whispers of a silver lining cloud world
unfurled before you in a great variety of sobriety
paralyzed when you realize
you could do anything, you do nothing instead.
Good men sleep and bad men too and the grey faeries dance on your dreams.