(We were perfectly married at the beginning of this problem. It’s the time that’s relative; and after all, who’s to say there’s no meaning in distance when it’s space that belongs to us.)
12.21.2006
Can’t we merge?
(We were perfectly married at the beginning of this problem. It’s the time that’s relative; and after all, who’s to say there’s no meaning in distance when it’s space that belongs to us.)
Leave no trace of grace, just trust in your honor....
The condition is now strong; on a vague edge between balance and genius sits a pair of soles, poised between the heal and the toe, they rest as the shoes you may walk in.
One day making fantastic attempts to lose them,
in hallways,
in dumpsters
just a way to free them from your own swollen model.
But if you choose their steps,
if you choose their grace
good riddance to predictability
goodnight to expense.
Shoes are made for borrowing, trading, handing down.
Not losing.
12.11.2006
12.10.2006
Why you’re pushing me off: Metaphysically.
...Within the limits imposed upon me, I followed his advice and went in. Still wearing the corduroy skirt, black stockings and a yellow blazer from the night before, I nestled up to the bar unnoticed. My face was made up but my nails were dirty and by habit I made an attempt to hid them under the bar, but ultimately decided that it probably didn’t matter anyway. I couldn’t possibly assume that anyone here actually saw me, let alone formulated thoughts about me-- if anything, I had blended into the scene nicely; appearing a half day old and wrecked from whatever bed I had come.
The bar tender spoke kindly. His face was flushed red and held the semitransparent vices of anxiety; futility; rancor and despair; and perhaps a hint of genius, but certainly not devotion or sympathy to any of his clients.
My attention was pushed over and spilling out onto the idea of finding a way back to disillusionment. I was pondering which alcohol to take when, “Miss?” He directed
I removed the gloss from the corners of my eyes, “A whiskey ginger, please.” not being, I thought. Not being what? The advice had been simple. Go to the bar he had said, you need a drink, just one. I remembered I had needed a drink, and possibly a cigarette, but definitely more than just one. But not being? What did he mean by not being?
And then the latin phrase tattooed above his right collar bone: Vita reditus essentia. Something about life-something-essential, or was it essence? I’d wished I’d paid more mind to my latin.
The drink was served up, “$3.50, miss.”
I handed over plastic, “Keep it open.” Vita reditus essentia.
The bar tender spoke kindly. His face was flushed red and held the semitransparent vices of anxiety; futility; rancor and despair; and perhaps a hint of genius, but certainly not devotion or sympathy to any of his clients.
My attention was pushed over and spilling out onto the idea of finding a way back to disillusionment. I was pondering which alcohol to take when, “Miss?” He directed
I removed the gloss from the corners of my eyes, “A whiskey ginger, please.” not being, I thought. Not being what? The advice had been simple. Go to the bar he had said, you need a drink, just one. I remembered I had needed a drink, and possibly a cigarette, but definitely more than just one. But not being? What did he mean by not being?
And then the latin phrase tattooed above his right collar bone: Vita reditus essentia. Something about life-something-essential, or was it essence? I’d wished I’d paid more mind to my latin.
The drink was served up, “$3.50, miss.”
I handed over plastic, “Keep it open.” Vita reditus essentia.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
