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.