Humor Study
James Bowden
Well, let me tell you, I hate
that I’m writing this. I hate
that you might read this. And I hate
that I must begin in this manner.
But as all stories begin, a word:
Indulge me.
This word recurs in my oral corpus. I do not
like that it does. I return to it each time I try
to describe what made me feel most loved
by those I loved most. Note–separate from
what of each I appreciated. But in any sort
of relationship, this question: what am I being
gifted,
provided,
beyond their existence? Beyond that line that
is them and me me. This is what it sounds like:
Oh, R humored me like no one ever had
before. Can you believe–she read all 500
spewy posts on my intimates instagram?
And M–he humored me first, before I
even knew the word, before I realized
there existed a world in which I was not.
And then A, who humored my poetic &
literary and emo spew for a while, & E,
who still does but doesn’t feel quite
the same.
& on & on & on & on, ad infinitum.
And so, humor. What do we do with it, now
that we’ve a definition? I mean, what I want
is a collaborative life living effort. Need we be
so alone? I know solo is default, but is it so
harmful that we lean? I am trying to learn to
be weak, to withhold my defenses and love,
but I am met with hurt. That me, my roiling
complexities and foibles cannot or will not,
does it really matter which?, be held. That
I may be held so long as I am simple and
recognizable and not too unlike the rest. I
am not.
This is tangential, but I keep thinking lately of how I’m learning new ways
of saying things, not the words themselves and their definitions, but the
how, that fickle slippery little motherfucker. All of this (do humor me)
because I had the impulse to start this off with just to start this off, this
isn’t the start of anything, a way of cautious sharing you gifted me. &
back to where we were again, humor me,
but my friend told me about how she dyes
her mother’s hair to beat back the greys so
that she might seem younger and be deemed
more eligible for tenure, and how every girl
who’s loved me fussed over the white hairs
blossoming from my skull with such affection,
as if their diligence alone could keep me young,
and I’m sorry to report that I’ve some 100 odd
fellows visible just from the top of my head these
days, not to mention the multitudes that likely
lay buried beneath. It’s been so long
since last I was fussed over.
And I’m trying to maintain a form here, put
this outburst into something digestible and
constructive so that you may pick it up, so
that you will be more easily convinced of its
worth, or really that the cost : benefit ratio
is low, that through my structuring you will
bear less of the messy effort that is this body,
this being, this brain. And I’m terrified to be too
much, even a little bit, did you know that I tried
to explain to my dad how hurt I’ve been by him
and after an hour of me doing my best to bridge
the gaping gap between us with my little rope
of words, he looked at me, distancing and unfamiliar,
and asked how I ever expected anyone to love me if it required this damn much effort and words and communication and god damn I never asked for any of this, I, like you, was born unconscious and
happen to be here and yes it’s to do with me but I NEVER ASKED FOR THIS and the least you, or
anyone could do, is just try, try a little bit harder,
to understand, to see, to love. And I know, this
all sounds quite taxing and unreasonable, but
isn’t this the cost of living and knowing anyone?
I’ve gotten high off my ass, stuffed myself full
of snacks and watched shitty movies for three
nights in a row now because this is the only way
I know to connect with my roommate on his
terms. Fell asleep thrice on the floor, trying
my best to humor him, to love him in what
ways he admits. And this, even though, or perhaps
because, I tried to help him understand where
our relationship was failing to meet my needs,
and he looked at me like my father, hands up,
confused, for what, for why, must we be so
intentional about living and loving? And I don’t
know, I genuinely don’t, but I’ve spent so long
being unloved, no loved and hurt in the same breath,
that I can no longer bear to be treated like the
wind and frankly,
I’d rather not toss you to the wayside without even trying.
I’d rather love you. I’d rather not
let go.
All
I know
is I’m terrified
and that I can’t
be the only one.
Angriest poem I’ve written in a while, perhaps ever? Anger fades out though and love returns, or I should say, is always sitting, waiting at the bottom.