trying to be realistic, cannot be realistic. overanalyzing realism. factice.
what fictions we spin when confined. but i believe in the truth that sleeps in the heart of fiction. and that the unsaid will escape through any means possible, if not by word, by gesture. body language illiterate, failed reader of fleshy braille, running my hands over nothing, trying to pick up signs from the air, from particles and current, no extrasensory perception means no signal. try again later.
Day of goosebumps in the sun. Train tickets to anywhere. False extensions. I'm only ever arm's length away. However far my arms reach, that's as far as I go.
fingertips grazing nothing, they are thick skinned and burned from getting too close to the source of the heat. burn again. then again. the woman with the burnt fingertips feels like she's closer to being something else than you are. one morning she will wake up unable to feel, unable to differentiate between herself and anything. that morning, the clouds could be lifting over her bed, they could be tucked in around her neck, she could be the clouds, she could be the sun that burns them away, she could be the wind that tackles them and rolls east without pausing.
read a fine poem by cedar sigo: "WORKS ON PAPER, THE SHIP OF DEATH" he writes. caps lock lends an authenticity that i find lacking in much poetry.
no catchy hooks today, no hooks at all. a veritable dearth of hooks. SOMETHING BETTER SCOOP ME UP BEFORE I BLOW AWAY TOO, HANG ME OUT, TORCH ME
yep, i can do it, too.
jesus h roosevelt christ.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment