the post-you and here.
26 November 2009 § Leave a comment
I remember telling you about the writing room and all the doorways – on the shelves were other worlds and you can have them all, and don’t stop, don’t stop – it’s not that I don’t want them, or you, or this world but if – can look around and see nothing but the earth in her natural state, then – know where – am at, cardinal directions dictated by the weathervane nearest you, way back there but it wasn’t so many hours ago that it was decided that only one of us had the power to decide. So tell the story like it happened and leave out all the parts that made it special, made it worth what it was, and create now what it wasn’t and prject that into me with passing trains and their origins in death.
Murders are the first course, so let him have his passage now and for the next, he’ll be jumping out the windows, playing tricks he’s always practiced, imagining the jewels that will follow him to the punchline, yes or no, not the stones but those associated with the very trickery, belligerence – he woke up in a daze and forgot about the sun – least to say it shocked the electricity from his heart and gave his brainwaves quite a start to discover that there was a star so close to him and she could make anything happen with a blink or anything else quite as simple – a breath or two will be my last example, and he or they would sweat or smile away all the shattering of bones and coins and some vital organs we mistook for some importance, for some point of view said it would be alright if we just broke it, or carefully removed it and placed it on the table, to watch it move like a colony of ants, watch it work itself to death protecting all those it loves or cares about to some extent, wait, wait, what exactly are we getting at?
Another failed attempt at tapping the subconcious, and now I’m back with you.
I am pressured by the purple sky to see past my own self. Last time I checked, these pages were the color of fake parchment mixed with a little bleach, but now they’re violet and textured, like an instrument I’ve seldom played before and could use some practice at if I were ever to perform, like in that empty amphitheater in Nashville – would I open up if I was there right now?
Would the words pour out of me, to no one particularly around, would my body move with them like I knew how to dance? It wouldn’t matter, I decide, because if there is something to be moved to, like the symphonies in my head, my soul would move me with the power of words and violins – to hell with shame; how many songs are left until the end? How many seconds, how many dances can we fit in before the end?