We met on the road.
I got caught in his headlights,
swept up in his credentials, as dazzled
by his arm-length of publishing credits as he.
Genius, they called him.
Obsessed over the mirror's reflection
and the high C's he missed,
I rode shotgun, assuming I was necessary
to his half-composed allegros and the notes
he was ill-equipped to hit if left
to his own devices.
I stumbled,
he glided
past cracks
in the stairs
and peeling bark.
He brought me a fiery skyline
causing me to incorrectly equate
gay plus poet
equals brilliance.
I followed him

through prickly mazes at Chinese monasteries,
refilled his refillabe pens,
and paper-toweled the blood trails
of beheaded statuary while anticipating
that once the film had lifted from his eyes
there would be soulful kisses
with my fingers locked in his hair and

his praise.  Neither was forthcoming.

As his madness progressed,
we planned concertos, plotted column width, debated
what John Q would accept as intellect
and what would be labled blasphemy.
We did these things over wine and Wagner,
candles and cheese --
yes, even the fantasies
came with a symphoney.

It was no secret that I loved deeply,
but in the end self-preservation ruled
and I left him alone with his
ladder-back metaphor and sacks
upon sacks of feathers.

 

© Patricia Gomes 2004