Friday, April 24, 2009

Untitled Prose Piece 1

The face is where words come from. Such that they can never be repeated. Such that the world turns & we’re going so quickly. Such that you’re out a-walking in the premature dusk of winter. People do interesting things all the time. Make that a large. It is so adjudicated. Or, throw oneself completely into. Long in the tooth, grasping at straws. How it bleeds into you. At, to, in. You drive me there, he says a bedroom. There’s a bed or a body with no heat. Let’s not be so literal. Do it laterally; stretch the page to make a fist or your mouth to sing a song. I thought your music could do it. Make it merry & traipse so heavily. Sheets of ice on the road. I could sing out in cigarette ash, all the hymns in your book. Come up with a melody, take it under the sheets with you. I have learned to listen for the sound of his hands manipulating fabric. No sense in unknowing. The smell of smoke but let’s rest a while longer. You set yourself on fire, waiting for the bus, or walking in clothes that weren’t yours, ignited by a lie, neighbors yelling & yucking it up. In fact, I lost my appetite for fish years ago. Your hand (stops signs) a stop sign a signal –make a way through it, to let it through. Or a ticker tape parade, confetti cascades, obscures distances. How could we cross the field if it was so dark out. Just follow the path, avoid pitfalls. Who is the who saying, what? Or what? At midnight, progress slowly. In bed, hold fast to the parallax of his figure moving away.

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