Untitled Prose Piece 2

I, or he, only me again, which is always funny & very sad. Someone taking many pictures, any other day, a hawk with a pigeon in its claws, waiting to eat but for this spectacle. How interesting! he says into your red beard. Maybe it’s a metaphor & you’re the pigeon, because that would be clever!

He standing or gerundive, present to others & it really all is very relational. Make your way through it, or throw a party, make a map of it. He sitting, looking studious or drawing doodles on the margin. How many times can he say it or live through it. We are the spectators to his grand decisions. Don’t be the one to decide, be elsewhere or other times because I’ve lived it all before. Don’t you know already that these stories are like buttonholes. Don’t ask me another question. The sheer joy & panic of contemplation, or retribution. Make it a hyphen. People do interesting things all the time. How it feels to remember, an array of enzymes, furtive. Put it in a letter. I put it in a letter. How can you say that to me. Push the envelope.

My, it got cold out! Every day at the park, doing the pedestrian thing. Sing into his beard, sitting in the park. I have to be careful with my language so I use somebody else’s & we’re going to sit here until something happens. Staring into the dark mouth of the evening, wondering after effect & cause. All of this so vague & present tense. Take that however you’d like.

The role of knowledge, like a suitor or tailor, making measurements, asking how it can be so. Relevant, to ask another question. Written in small script like a riddle like a pictogram. Cover it with snow. Take it with you as you walk away. How do you carry a question, in your hands, cradled & swathed in pink fabrics or with the teeth, like steam or a bug in your mouth. I find it terribly difficult to talk about death.

If we go out walking now, the moon will just sit there. Could we ask if that were possible? Whispering the secret, sitting in the park. A different one & one, or together again. Stitched at the seam of your face in his hands just as a question on stale breath lingers in his beard. It’s a bit like someone having food on their face or in their teeth. You feel embarrassed for them but not enough of motivation to tell.

Terrorizing light & color shifts from the television. Instinct, or, at least, the thought of it. Don’t give up on me just yet, he says, wait for the next full moon, he says, let memory be what milks your future, draws it out as through a silkworm, he says, though we both know it won’t budge. The Masoretes put letters into things.

Think it through, walk against a yellow light. The pavement shudders. Or was it the sense of tension in the air, tight like a fist, what are you going to love? I’m listening, rapt at the door. Such a thing is geometric, you with your lilt & awkward nose. I always said it made you look Jewish. This is no fairy tale, writing about predation, hawks waiting to eat. Was it you told me the crackling electricity in the city is enticing? Crossing a room. I’ve no idea how it works. Or if it should.