September 22nd, 2012

(no subject)

"Why did you never succeed in leaving her alone? Did you think she would change her mind?"

"No. But it was a compulsion."

A year later, he had all but forgotten her. The taste of carrots glittered in his mind every tenth or twelfth time he saw her, but it did not really bother him. He expected he would always remember that taste, and viscerally too, even if he never kissed her again.

What else? Burn... but his heart, it didn't ...or rather, it did, it burned, and so desperately too, that it often seemed like a force that would appear and quickly disappear again, as a temperal storm would, with the changing winds.... he would meet various beautiful girls, take them out for a coffee, entice them with plans of travelling, and poetry, then... they would disappoint him, or he them, and one or the other between them would disappear. A physical memory would follow them around for a day or two- in the lips, in the legs- but usually they could avoid each other long enough to get past that. It was never a problem.



All of this felt sick --

What could he do to escape this pattern? And why didn't he love the carrot girl?




Eventually he got bored and stopped thinking about girls or love. He got kisses from rabbits on a farm in Kentucky. Stones of forest fires warmed his heart. Fireflies on summer porch nights gave him hope and the inspriation nercessary to write:

Northern gist

  obliviate the afternoon

  in carnation blooms

  against a pale and reckless

  cheek of moon

Nothing frail remains

  though fragile curses hang

  beneath my tongue

  and wrap the steady dark

  of willow branches -

Get out.

(no subject)

Sometimes, and I never would have imagined it when I was younger, my body holds inside of it a sleek motion, a sway of emotion, pulled in from a mix of future, past and present desire; I am left to close my eyes involuntarily, with slight delay. There has been a constant conversation between leaves and trees today; the wind kept close to the earth and agitated by the grey, grey, grey... and only the most occasional rain up to now. & I am sitting on a round table. I am next to the red building of books and death - there is some forgetting everyone needs to do to feel comfortable there- and also next to the strange steeple that is elevated on a pedestal, with tiny faces out of Dante's hell mouthing at me: --//-- : hidden behind a few, young-adult aged trees. Fresh. The right shadow. A cultured woman - smoking and reading - what is her capacity for passion? - short red hair, freckles, red earrings, oblique glance, oh and distracted phone.. the smell of her cigarette, she questions me too - and again a murmur, the wind enables the conversations again - and I never would have imagined it when I was younger - but the imprints of S's lips and her absence have left in my body a sleek motion, a sway...