Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
I tug on my sweater, she says, she starts with a story that never ends. Stagnant. Discontiuned. No they don’t have that item on the shelf anymore..they’re sold out..or we never carried it. They say..she said..you are dealt cards it’s your choice how you play them. You thought you made that up yourself..you thought you were so clever..yeah well I know the real you. But I tug on my sweater and purse my lips and hold in whatever because I am polite.
Snow falls around her..she says..she tries to start again..but this time isn’t any better. It’s last year’s magazine..outdated..thoughts turned to mold in the dampness of that cavern. Where crystalline dreams used to be swarming the walls..the rocky ledges of the cliff. We decided to take the path that no one had ventured to take..with overgrown thistles and the big black beetles. But then past the blueberries and further beyond that pile of broken stones..broken..so many things broken. No glue..no crazy glue..she asked I said I didn’t know.
“now it’s like rolling in a field of daisies” she tried to explain..to start once more. Here..it’s like this..you think they’re lovely and they have such welcoming shining bright yellow faces but then once you lay your body upon their leaves and the weight of it hits the earthen floor you might land on a stone with a sharp edge and before you know it you are backstabbed…such misleading and tempting and lovely. And then you expose your spine and it drills its thorns into the depths of it all..and you are paralyzed.
Remember that man we saw in the snowy streets of boston. Remember your apartment. Remember your neglect. Remember it was actually fall now that I think of it. Oh..that explains it.
And you wonder what time..zone it is. What if it was too many years back that I can’t remember anymore. What if the tape got too far rewound that it broke itself. But maybe this was protection. It fucks with you. I really does. That’s the job of it all and the fun of it all and the ridiculously unexplainable. But not like time travel like that one time that we time travelled in your attic. Like memories time travel..like 20 thousand leagues under the depths of the unconscious. Like blanketed fleece, buried in a macramé built to last.
And then another..reminded me of the science of sleep. When the felt ships sailed upon paper waters and the pony broke its leg. And how could I forget the tree where we found that silver can and we laughed. I captured you as a ghost.