I invoke my broken recall
and
Summon every binding seam,
the
Sorties of the calendars,
to
Narrate—that is, weave the fabric—
this
Deadline (due-date, past-its-prime,
or
Starting line) of next times.
So you rode with graffiti
like
Orpheus, delving away from the sunlight
to
Find that the end of the line
is
Master: a rectangle mirror
gone
Blue in the sunlight—for sunlight is nothing
The color of yellow is nothing,
While blue is just air, just the residue
Bent from the substance of breath.
It is just like a year, or this year or your year;
else
Last year, or days—for we ask ourselves
'What is a year'—and perhaps this year
will
Be the first year you realize that the next time
is
Simply the same time.
Combat Expiration: Midnight PST, 12/19/2011
Critique Expiration: Midnight PST 12/19/2011 NOTE: FINISHES SAME TIME AS COMBAT
Bonuses/Penalties: +2 if posted by 6pm PST 12/16/2011; +1 if posted by 2am PST 12/17/2011. -1 if posted by 6am PST 12/19/2011; -2 if posted by 12pm PST 12/19/2011.
The Rules: http://combatwords.blogspot.com/2010/07/official-rules-for-combatwords-updated.html
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I have had bad years before and I have had very bad years but this year is in a special category of bad year. In my bad years I went to funerals for friends. In my very bad years I was in the hospital. But this year, well, this year, I had dinner with a woman I love, and I knew she didn't love me, but I couldn't be sure, and even though I couldn't act on my love for her - I wouldn't do that to her, she has someone else and so do I - I found out that I could've acted on my love for her years ago, and should've - I had thought she hadn't been available at the time, but she was, she was, and I didn't act, and now I'll either have to regret it every day for the rest of my life or tell myself that it wouldn't have worked out anyway, it wasn't meant to me, she's not for me and I'm not for her, and I have nothing to offer her anyway, and I realize that all this is illusion and delusion and it doesn't matter, I made my choice not to act on my love years ago, and now that moment is gone forever and there's no point anguishing over it, but I am like the cloaked man on the Five of Cups tarot card, fixated on the spilled cups and ignoring the full ones, and it has been almost three months now and it's all I can think about it, why didn't I kiss the back of her neck when I had my chance? Oh, but then I remember, I knew it would be wrong, so I didn't do it, but I was wrong, it wouldn't have been wrong, it might've been right, but no, it wouldn't have worked out. So now I run this Moebius treadmill of regret and rationalization, knowing that I missed what might be my last chance at love. I think about seeing other women and then tell myself: Look at you, you don't want to see any other woman, you only want to see her; and anyway, look at you, you couldn't handle a love affair, you fall apart, you become obsessive, you build empires of illusions in your mind and live in alternate realities, you're too sensitive for love, it drives you insane. Maybe this year wasn't as bad as the years I went to funerals for friends, and maybe it wasn't as bad as the years I was in the hospital. But it's bad, I assure you - and if I can't stop thinking about this, it may be worse.
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