(no subject)
Sleepy, luscious leanings tonight, brazen as two cold coins pressed into the flesh, or a pocketful of other change elsewhere. The more I write you away from me, the sweeter is your lilting floating back into my open hand, paper ship on my mud puddle of a lake. My crouching form, and what is expected and accepted.
I think I said "fast sailing ship" and "fast-sailing ship" and "fast sailing-ship," somewhere into the curving cherry of your lower lip, but that was just a rumbling ahoy a thousand or ten thousand leagues ago, and nothing more than, once again, my folding of this newsprint into a little boat, puddle-worthy liner, dreams we had but you didn't. Things I said but I didn't. Ways you never meant it and forgot to mention. And me, too. Also, me.
The androgynous historian sets his fine, erect pen to us, flares us out a bit at the edges for a positive trait of correspondence and coherence, but wishes us a merry narrative at the beating waves of it, sends us merry narrating bleatings with sea rations to sustain us, great sails to persuade us that we were never history but a fortune.
Tell her, I once said. And you said, No.
Anthropology is not a science, is another form of fiction, is another skittering narrative, is another raptor's festival. And I'm just a fortune teller, at the prow of this textual transport (this time), just your average big-eyed oracle. Just pretend, but for real.
I want to put my tongue right into the most concave, genital-like part of my cheek and remind you of the weight of sunken treasure, the cold coins you could have pressed into my even more recessive recesses. But you didn't, and we aren't pirates, or scientists, or historians. We were merely insects, playmates and sadists.
The androgynous pirate sets fire to his sword, burnishes your name into my arm (again) and I set the flames down with a little spit (again) because the concept of "we" is more easily extinguished than either of us would care to admit. (Take this missive, for instance, and the domino effect it will render -- on target, sure fire, annihilating.)
Tell me, I said once. And you said, No.
And so you sent me on my merry bleeding, narrating decomposer, salty grave of indiscretion. And soon we both discovered that I was not a good historian, cared nothing, really, for corresponding and cohering, and gave every bit of burning skin I had for the sea-faring aria, the underwater warble, the excavation of a fictive island, and the married fortune teller.
Read it in my brow, conclude it and compose it, read it in the cheek-like curve of the better parts of me, the deepest, diving, driving parts.
One more time, with feeling.
I think I said "fast sailing ship" and "fast-sailing ship" and "fast sailing-ship," somewhere into the curving cherry of your lower lip, but that was just a rumbling ahoy a thousand or ten thousand leagues ago, and nothing more than, once again, my folding of this newsprint into a little boat, puddle-worthy liner, dreams we had but you didn't. Things I said but I didn't. Ways you never meant it and forgot to mention. And me, too. Also, me.
The androgynous historian sets his fine, erect pen to us, flares us out a bit at the edges for a positive trait of correspondence and coherence, but wishes us a merry narrative at the beating waves of it, sends us merry narrating bleatings with sea rations to sustain us, great sails to persuade us that we were never history but a fortune.
Tell her, I once said. And you said, No.
Anthropology is not a science, is another form of fiction, is another skittering narrative, is another raptor's festival. And I'm just a fortune teller, at the prow of this textual transport (this time), just your average big-eyed oracle. Just pretend, but for real.
I want to put my tongue right into the most concave, genital-like part of my cheek and remind you of the weight of sunken treasure, the cold coins you could have pressed into my even more recessive recesses. But you didn't, and we aren't pirates, or scientists, or historians. We were merely insects, playmates and sadists.
The androgynous pirate sets fire to his sword, burnishes your name into my arm (again) and I set the flames down with a little spit (again) because the concept of "we" is more easily extinguished than either of us would care to admit. (Take this missive, for instance, and the domino effect it will render -- on target, sure fire, annihilating.)
Tell me, I said once. And you said, No.
And so you sent me on my merry bleeding, narrating decomposer, salty grave of indiscretion. And soon we both discovered that I was not a good historian, cared nothing, really, for corresponding and cohering, and gave every bit of burning skin I had for the sea-faring aria, the underwater warble, the excavation of a fictive island, and the married fortune teller.
Read it in my brow, conclude it and compose it, read it in the cheek-like curve of the better parts of me, the deepest, diving, driving parts.
One more time, with feeling.