Friday, May 2, 2014

the oubliette. (throwback)

the oubliette.
July 24, 2010 at 12:42am

[When I seemed to have my mind made up, I completely lost sight of it]

Even in dreams.

With a quiet little push, you'll find it
The memory, that is.

There's one in all of us, at the very least
One footstep, a limb or bent steel post and girder
A pocket of silence and disbelief around the next corner
A path you will no longer look down.

It looms there, ominously. You dream about it.
It's a place where, even when you're not alone
You shake for it.

It bristles with energy and shadowed, grinning mirth
Or, its indifference.
Either way, it can be felt and breathed but never touched.
You'll never meet whatever's watching you from that corner
Or field
Or empty office building.

It's the reason why you'll sprint the stairs in a parking garage if the elevator hesitates
Any longer than the ignition you turn in the feeble and fictional safety of your car
All glass and more fragile than any of us.

It's the silence you suddenly quiet your friends over,
Or the place you didn't leave your keys or camera
When you walked away for that split second.

It's a game when we're children, when we're lied to
Because the people who teach us have forgotten
It's fun to know we're not alone when no one will be with us.
It's an undeniable floating and swirling bundle
Of vacillating, dancing, vanishing
Motes of no particular distinction,

It's a place of forboding
Of forgetting,

It's where all those memories go. The ones that would normally hold the chills in your spine,
Or say, add several palpitations to your near-still heart.
The things you won't speak to anyone
Whom you know in your heart of hearts share
The childish fear that something's out there
Even if you're safe now, behind your brick and glass and pine framing

But being inside doesn't take the forgetting away.

it takes us, in part, in phases, through this veil.
Through our

We won't take part anymore, can't entertain anything outside this narrow myopia
Anything extended past our shallow and waning riverbed of consciousness
And monotony
And indifference
Watching our passions drown
In mere stagnant inches.

It's still something we know about ourselves, these animals
These breathing and moving shapes in the dark
That haunt us
Forever holding our memories of them until we meet them again.

The trouble is
When we pass these buildings
Alleys, bars,
our old homes
There's no choice but to feel it again.

The hair bristling on your arms, the railish fingers of your
Abandoned consciousness gripping your nerves
Your adrenaline
Because you're there to retrieve it, hunting
In the moonlight,
Because the energy was yours once, too.

We know, as children do,
As often, as often as children do
That these things, we can't do anything but call them real
Even without a name
A heart
A face
Even a body,

They are with us, forever haunting the one corner we turn.
Taking us, piece by piece
Not that we'd know
Until we pass them again.