Post the Forty-Fifth: In Which Tesla Has Apparently Been Naughty (Poetic Interlude V)

Oh, Gentle Reader! I started the new job, writing, today. While it’s more challenging than I had anticipated, it’s not bad at all. At any rate, you only get a demi-post and a poetic interlude, because my fingers are cramping from all the typing I’ve been doing. Also: far less time was spent on Twitter today, which is very positive, because while I was on there this morning, this happened:


Excellent advice, even if you aren’t Tesla

More seriously, last spring a brief romance bloomed. It had been on the boil for years, so to speak, and had a few false starts over the years, but this time it finally caught. I was infatuated in a way that I hadn’t been for years – head-over-heels. The young man in question was ridiculously attractive, kind, generous, and clever — not to mention that he was also a writer and musician.  He was a good friend’s ex-husband, which was a bit of a stumbling block, of course, but we split up because he wasn’t a he at all. She was trans, and I was so in love that I didn’t give a damn, but, regrettably, she began the painful process of working through it while we were together, and her vision of the future did not include me. Then there was a hell of a lot of drama on both sides, but when I think of one golden spring afternoon – we had borrowed a friend’s futon, after a dinner party, and had spent the night together. In the morning, a walk through quaintly charming Proctor district of Tacoma, to a farmer’s market, where we breakfasted on Thai curry. The afternoon was spent with a few friends in a sunny yard, where people worked on various projects and small-work, and I penned the following short piece as a tribute.



I’d like to keep you pinned and saved;

Display you under glass,

Trap time in my killing jar,

And make the moment last.

I want to mount you on my wall,

Kept perfect, evermore;

My heart will be the wire frame

I stitch into your core.

I yearn to mummify your love,

Preserve a million days,

(Kept in secret: pure, pristine)

To never rot away.

I’d rather that you never lived,

Thus never had to go –

Oh, I’ll be your formaldehyde!

Be my curio?

©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved


About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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