Feb 02, 2006 05:27
I wonder if you get tired of sleeping under doorjambs, unable to pass into the unknown of hinting memories while still afraid of being wholly exposed in the light.
Its like our lips have been altered to speak a broken dialect that's near indecipherable at this point.
I want to grab each girl by the face and tell them "hush, you don't have to try so hard anymore;
its so close to over".
I want to grab myself by my chalk cheekbones and ask why Ive been talking like a ghost for so long.
Ghosts don't need words to explain their actions, they exist solely by the memories they've already produced
and the effect on the living when they enter the room. The living by means of awkward breath and the clumsy pathway of blood
rushing in hot blushes on their cheeks. Oh shame, how you've made us human.
I've already gone to bed with the shivering concept of self-identity erasure,
only she's just gone up to the bathroom and run the tap
for hours on end.
Sometimes i look at the scattered articles she cast off so quickly and wonder how each one
reflects on her, how covered she felt when she put these on,
how this is transfered to me through her tongue.
I knew they wouldn't recognize her; its this foreign tongue I'm talking about.
They might be the most brilliant consonants found in between my sentences
ringing like a chandelier filled with hollowed out wine glasses and bones like bird's wings,
yet they'd be receieved just as shallow as the guttural tones of a language we don't recognize.
How can you be drenched with god and still be thirsty?
(I prayed to understand the human condition and my mind went blank)
plants can't live when the coincidence of the sun meeting its former lover is made obvious,
so she passes me rose pedals under the wet smother of her mouth.
You can take a picture of a complete stranger and see only angles, or look harder and get that understood look,
the one that gets multiplied in a crowd at an untouchable distance that only receeds further the closer you get.
You'd think you'd see someone's soul if you stared hard enough
(like some stray frame running through a projector escaping from the true negatives of each scene)
into the grooves of their eyes, it's just the same small-talk circles.
So do I embrace myself as a weaker semblence of my carnal desires? A loose mimicking of internal desires shown through the shadow puppets of my arms and legs, immovable except for a rotating source of light.
loving someone enough to pin my arms down to my sides;
I will push my body through whatever rhythms and unreachable lunges in order to become a stationary object.
We can be that familiar graffiti people mark their way home by. Concrete banks people may extinguish their cigarette butts and pretend the force of the ashes smoldering will project them forward. Some decieving sign of immovable home, pews made of park benches and comforting waves of sleep offered wherever sun stretches over sand. Oh,
I wish we were
so simply satisfied.
If we all must return to some sense of self, personal distortions erased by us being the only masters of us,
shouldn't we be drawn towards doorways? Some semblance of vaginal cavity that forced us to breathe on our own in the first place?
Transition shouldn't kill us, as it's the real world that's stopped struggling to break through.
If we're still balanced between Nirvana and Samsara
(with our struggling so futile in the second tries towards an ideal life that's still not right)
and standing on the roots only to be looking up at the branches
(etching down the natural patterns of mid-trunks turned mid-wives)
then I say we look into Mother Nature's tulips and become reborn
from the globes and records we've kept as souvenoirs
to the circles we were born from.