Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

There is an inner silence that begins to take shape, sometimes, in the thicker corners of me. It is a blackness that spreads, but a blackness that is bereft of meaning or skill. It is not cold. It is not warm. It is heaven, and spreading. It takes over when I am lucid, when the winds of Taos fold over me and I cannot tell if I’m chilled anymore. I want so badly to be stubborn, but I’m not—I’m as open and whimsical as the night sky. I take care not to disrupt the Seasons; they are temporary and formed, and they need their place. I’m warm; I’m ruthless in my care.

I am, and have stated many times, ruthless in my care. Repetitive motion. Conditions falling way too fast to have any empathy for it. You again—you shake me and wake my bones faster than before. There is love. Why is it there is always hidden boundaries to a person? Why is it that we never see those we most want to see? Why is it that the demons or sides of a coworker is never revealed far enough to shake us down? I’m open. I’m open to these changes, I just don’t want to fall down an endless flight of stairs; I just don’t want to be a desert rat and not have any home. What happens when we cannot feel the floor? What makes of us when we have no bottom to hit?

I’m sold. I’m sold on the rheumatic arthritis and grey hair and sullen eye bags—I’m sold on the wistful memories and the stolen cars and the isolated moments of pain—I’m even sold on our never-ending camaraderies, that end up somewhere being mis-translated as “distance” or “friendship” or “love”—who knows what to make of that. Are you too sure in your vocabulary that the only way you know how to gesture is through a wall? Signing with little gurgles and grunts? Poetry is not for the masses.

Poetry is for the dead.

Silver, sliver, simpler whispers. Who knows, you know? Do you know the shadow side, wanting, waking, taking over. One lip too many (he never saw it coming). This stalk is taking far too little much time (it’s an organization of democratic slumber. You are United against one solid basking—whether it be Glow, or Baby, or Storm.

(Once, when I was little, I ate a whole bag of cantaloupe. It tasted like chalk. I hated it for its resistance, but I wanted it in my mouth for its juice. You know—you are like that melon. You ride up over my soft borders, and you ache away my smile. I will try to forget you (is this the same as forgiving myself?) but I won’t ever be able to forget the way you made me love. I loved you longingly. Peacetime and sorry. Oh, I am so sorry. I caused a rumble, I caused a tear—which, unshockingly, looks like “tear” when written. Oh, how stupid the ironies.

A second go-around does not mean success. You may make me shudder, and laugh, and even hope—but you will never, never be the same. I am unflinchingly committed. And there is nothing you can give me to split that stone. I may come a thousand times in your arms, but there will never be any black line (we were always, almost always, in the Red.)

[you’re done]

Take some time now to remember—you thought I was more than just the moment. You saw me as a child should—as halo-ed in Knowledge, as painted with Authority, as sure as meat—some kind of animal stock you’d been lusting after, and lo! and behold, there I’d show. Prime. In my smaller moments of disappointment, I actually believe I see you again—just a flicker on the periphery. A stream to catch my eye. Perhaps you were a lifetime. I begin to jump and hope again, my temperature swells—but in the end, you are just a season. You were just a spell.

§1215 · March 25, 2011 · Freewrites, New Mexico Magic · · [Print]

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