Thursday, December 8, 2016
[show me the bent future in that prism.
curve my body and capture me,
spin me upside down in your lens.
show me that power, girl.
'cause i can't just stay the course,
i can't distinguish
who's driving and
if they're driving me
i'm bent in the back from gathering
artifacts and all these artless facts
on the gravel road that runs right away from
the home i left to eat fire, to spit fire
to build new, and to burn.
and out on the asphalt and broken glass,
under the stagnant sky of night,
the cheap and ephemeral twinkle of starlight,
there's no guiding wavelength,
no resonance, no waves, no magnetism
in any direction
as far as the eye can see
this monumental emptiness.
all the things we thought were left across state lines
they've followed me, followed us home.
and the polaroid develops from fleshy silhouettes to
smiling faces, to pause and record a moment in time
on cheap plasticky paper, and our voices are melted
into wax and pressed, and played on and on and over,
with no end in sight.
and the needle bends as the record spins,
hard enough to start a fire,
to build a roadside camp
on a highway scratched like a razor line
through the desert in this atlas.
and the sounds and the pictures draw out
and not many months ago
happiness was just a stupid dream.
but i'd dream of you;
beset on all sides by visions,
the visions reconnecting lost parts of me,
parts reacting violently,
fingers keying buttons with crippling carpal tunnel,
fingers clawing thoughts out through my hands and
my mouth, from this stunted imagination
and for the all words i'd like to think i could draw on,
i know i don't always have them for you.
and instead of drawing on what i once knew,
echoes of what i once was
instead of calling on some god
and drinking of the bitter sacrament,
and taking more and more
to curve and sharpen the words
because it helps to illustrate something otherwise
i'll pen this letter, these thoughts,
because i know
there will be reproach
there will be no approaching it
there will be no redemption
i'm feeling unwitting,
i've got that feeling,
that burning feeling.
but we can get this spine aligned,
we can get these stars aligned,
we can make and take snapshots
we can archive old and make new.
we can burn, and we can build;
but you should know - at the other end of that
telephone line he's hanging from,
however he be bedecked,
is a man in a dazzling fur-lined hat,
waiting only for you,
for your lips and your moves,
and any words they might make.
there's a man buried in artifacts , new and old
carrying art and artless facts, new and old
curled and crippled hands, gnarled into claws
clawing feverishly at thoughts
that can't quite break free,
to cross past teeth and jump lips.
on the other end of that letter, there's a man
reacting violently within, just to tell you that
you mean the world and the stars to him,
that the light you bring him makes the stars
look like tawdry street lights.
you should know you are the world,
end to end,
and you share a place in his heart with the
sun and the sky,
and the things he'd do for you
are virtually limitless.
see, that's me.
i'm feeling unwitting.
i got that feeling,
that burning feeling.