Notes in the Other

I was looking long & hard at my life
& seeing it in a way I had never seen before,
dreaming loneliness like some preferred last refuge.
I am learning to articulate the language of despair.
The guardians of innocence have failed;
the last Vestal virgin has been put to death.
There is nothing holy remaining
& the only virtue left me is my virtuelessness.
Am I the only one to survive the Sex Wars
& is even my survival assured?
There is always the imminent threat
of a relapse of passion,
the numbing paralysis of wanting a woman.
I reserve my pity for those
who are guided by words, authority & hard-ons.
When they ask me why I will not play the game
I invariably reply "Why should I?"
Who will miss me?
Who will love me as only a madwoman can?
I have been among the diseased too long;
now there is no distinction.
The asylum of my sleep is thwarted
with loveless rooms and succubi.
Rumors of my unsanity delivered me
with presents of unsolicited attention.
Everybody wanted to see for themselves -
was it really true?
I hope I did not disappoint anyone.
The thing that disturbs you
is the very thing I love to flaunt.
Perhaps someday I will swelter in the flames of purgation
but I will never offer my head to the guillotine
you call foregiveness.
I will confirm all whispers.
DO NOT RESCUE ME!
The difference between you and I -
you have a future.
Still I love the world as only an orphan can.
I move through your laws & your traditions
like an outcast,
like ghostly surges of silence.
When I am not dreaming, I vomit.
I crouch in the safety of sterility,
forced by my sickness to mar every white wall,
to call out the names of beauty & reverence
with the taunting voice of disdain.
I walk through lost soul-encrusted corridors
where wander minds blanked out with Thorazine, Stellazine, Compazine,
reeking with an odor of deluge.
I was taught to remember all the ugliness I had learned to forget.
Your ears were deaf to the echoes of tears.
Your thoughtless laughter bruised my silence.
My eyes flared through your skin & froze there
your ridicule.
We have no memory of pain.
We must keep reliving it again & again -
prisoners without bars
waiting for inspiration to kill us,
to murder us in our sleep.
But I will instruct you
there is no escape so easy.
I will lay before you the Hermetic keys of blood.
There are two fires burning:
the red flames of desire
& the clear fire of release.

- Barry Kapke, 1979
Berkeley, CA