He won't understand just like he never understands that I write in
patterns like the female orgasm that my logic builds on itself turning
and turning in ever increasing circles often requiring pressure and
attention to bring the whole act to fruition and even though the journey
takes slightly over 40 pages.
I have to use my hands and lips eyes
and tongue to get to the point where you can finish.
I get you there
building and building until you want to scream into my ear your
satisfaction at the spiral I wrapped you up in to some sweet release.
There's nothing left to say or do.
Roll your name over again on my
tongue like wringing hands of a prayer.
Palms pressing teeth.
Lips
silent open.
Wrapping myself in the flesh of your name like sheets of
skin.
The sting of pain dulled by this collection of letters hiding held
like a lemon drop under the tongue. The new name of you intersecting
the chords of my throat.
Tucked like the pressure of a palm in the bend
of the knee. Like lips caught in the shadow of a collar bone. Auricle
tongue.
The static of you plaits my hair. Reduces my mouth
phonetic--your name pressed out.
I come home
clutch my coffee mug
sip and sip my way back
instead .
Monday, March 18, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
Reverberations
March brought my voice for the first time
something written on a cold day while waiting for him and then later read into a recorder with deliberation – without thought to recompense
numb fingers gripping a pen
to save those words that just wouldn’t stop
like the smile
from listening to his song
the way every note taught different pieces of my body yet undiscovered words for combustion
captured onto any stray scrap of paper to be found
the margins of a schedule.
Maybe he never knew that what it really meant was that I’d never recover from the moment that deep inhalation of breath in a space between chords maybe he never knew that i wouldn’t stop listening.
Something happens in the span of time between making music and hearing music
the laws of space and time that allow one hand striking a chord—even a million miles away—to produce an actual physical response in the body of someone else. touching without touching.
These moments when we hear.
When we listen long enough.
What he said
from me:
maybe it’s a conversation
two voices saying
i don’t want you to go.
but I have to go.
over and over again
until the disjunction reforms
mixing into a unification.
and he breathes at just the right spot
when the dissonance between
metal and metal
metal and flesh
culminates
becomes clear
and the separateness returns
the plucking of chords
into words
into sounds that need no other name
something written on a cold day while waiting for him and then later read into a recorder with deliberation – without thought to recompense
numb fingers gripping a pen
to save those words that just wouldn’t stop
like the smile
from listening to his song
the way every note taught different pieces of my body yet undiscovered words for combustion
captured onto any stray scrap of paper to be found
the margins of a schedule.
Maybe he never knew that what it really meant was that I’d never recover from the moment that deep inhalation of breath in a space between chords maybe he never knew that i wouldn’t stop listening.
Something happens in the span of time between making music and hearing music
the laws of space and time that allow one hand striking a chord—even a million miles away—to produce an actual physical response in the body of someone else. touching without touching.
These moments when we hear.
When we listen long enough.
What he said
from me:
maybe it’s a conversation
two voices saying
i don’t want you to go.
but I have to go.
over and over again
until the disjunction reforms
mixing into a unification.
and he breathes at just the right spot
when the dissonance between
metal and metal
metal and flesh
culminates
becomes clear
and the separateness returns
the plucking of chords
into words
into sounds that need no other name
Thursday, March 7, 2013
conversations with Superman
yesterday, with my head pressed firmly against the far left cushion,
close to sleep, still following the moving pictures on the television
with my eyes, sounds filtering, nonsensical into my ears, i realized the
fabric of my couch is hero blue. god, damn, i muttered to no one in
particular.
I've always loved Superman.
"I am there" he whispered.
"sitting on the far right back seat that you just quite but almost can't see. I'm in your right front pants pocket. At that spot on the inside of your left wrist where the blood might have been pumping under a watch face, if you wore one. I am the sound of compression breaks., The slow dull voice over-head calling out stops. all the way home. I am the familiar scent you always find at the same time foreign and familiar when you fold back the sheets and climb into bed. I am--each and every-- morning"
I told him how I'm folding in on myself. these days. trying to lose significance between the crisp holy pages of books. unsatisfied with the attempt -- unable to break the surfaces. Head empty or perhaps too full up. I sit for long moments and think about the smell of the ocean just after a rain. or my grandfather's garage filled with the scent of car oils and perpetually decaying wood. I wander around this city in which i live. searching for something that i just can't quite remember. all the corners have lost their edges. and i'm numb to the sound.
and I just told him how I want to be his hippie dream.
All long haired twin braids and just the right amount of too many hemp necklaces and bracelets. Peasant blouses with skirts. The perfectly broken in pair of sandals. I'd always smell something like incense and tapioca pudding. And I'd be lovely without any makeup. Memories of me would make him think of daisies and sunshine and the smell of new rain.
Not kitsch. Just right.
I've always loved Superman.
"I am there" he whispered.
"sitting on the far right back seat that you just quite but almost can't see. I'm in your right front pants pocket. At that spot on the inside of your left wrist where the blood might have been pumping under a watch face, if you wore one. I am the sound of compression breaks., The slow dull voice over-head calling out stops. all the way home. I am the familiar scent you always find at the same time foreign and familiar when you fold back the sheets and climb into bed. I am--each and every-- morning"
I told him how I'm folding in on myself. these days. trying to lose significance between the crisp holy pages of books. unsatisfied with the attempt -- unable to break the surfaces. Head empty or perhaps too full up. I sit for long moments and think about the smell of the ocean just after a rain. or my grandfather's garage filled with the scent of car oils and perpetually decaying wood. I wander around this city in which i live. searching for something that i just can't quite remember. all the corners have lost their edges. and i'm numb to the sound.
and I just told him how I want to be his hippie dream.
All long haired twin braids and just the right amount of too many hemp necklaces and bracelets. Peasant blouses with skirts. The perfectly broken in pair of sandals. I'd always smell something like incense and tapioca pudding. And I'd be lovely without any makeup. Memories of me would make him think of daisies and sunshine and the smell of new rain.
Not kitsch. Just right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)