The streets of this city are tough, if tired: churned by childlike appearance, the apprehension of biting storms. I will drop these gentle winds if to be caught in the fanged airs of unearthly escapes; I will drop these gentle winds and run.
Where else do you find the minotaur, windswept and inhuman—miniature if androgynous gentiles of youth—but between the airs, and the eyes, united in the burning brow of memory, mistaken magic, or mighty mistakes? I can look up, out and above these pigeon-grey of skies. Yet what has kept me wild is not insincere, nor cynicism, but bruised belongings; the same belonging that nips in longing and layers beneath my skin. The belonging that brings me back to an artful, uphill climb raw of reason, powdery grass that grew more potent promises to let die.
Why, then, am I gasping, grasping for a breath beneath the yards of fabric that fall, fly around me, feign billowy softness I once believed all cities, pigeons, incensed doves possessed? I remain agile and exhausted in these silken jaws or dreams, in the smart swell of my jaundiced past.
When the blood, or breathe, stops streaming, so too the tears, so too the storms. What I wait within is neither ice nor warm, needed nor disposable, not mine but all that I can grasp back from the past, can give again.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Wardrobes
The venom is in the closet, where I tuck my head in the day, praying for a door to Narnia. What is noxious is the emptiness, the broad belly in which I can no longer close myself. And when I close the door, the simple white, a reflection of me and me alone. I believe it is there in the wardrobe, no land of lions but one of less fickle fairies that can dutifully dust alive.
When I sit and sweat below the earth's surface, drink wine in the revelry that I should embrace, I stand outside of myself; I shoulder the warmth of the evening, I whisper in the face of the girl I know best. It is not that I believe--there is a very obvious sentiment in the name of Never never land; it is just that while there is very much beauty in possibility, there is ecstasy only in what cannot be, breed, breathe. Impossibility is artful, an aged fountain we drown searching for.
So too can I drown my days when I watch the wardrobe, push up against the cement of walls that I hope will fall beneath my fingers, melting Dali clocks weeping on my hands. So too can I hope that whatever is in the wardobe, or in the skies, does not live only within me--that dollhouse version is too small to embrace. And that is all I am looking for in a sea of clothes, striped silk and always argyle. I am looking for his mane, peppered beard; the man more than the spirit that I have been promised will remain.
When I sit and sweat below the earth's surface, drink wine in the revelry that I should embrace, I stand outside of myself; I shoulder the warmth of the evening, I whisper in the face of the girl I know best. It is not that I believe--there is a very obvious sentiment in the name of Never never land; it is just that while there is very much beauty in possibility, there is ecstasy only in what cannot be, breed, breathe. Impossibility is artful, an aged fountain we drown searching for.
So too can I drown my days when I watch the wardrobe, push up against the cement of walls that I hope will fall beneath my fingers, melting Dali clocks weeping on my hands. So too can I hope that whatever is in the wardobe, or in the skies, does not live only within me--that dollhouse version is too small to embrace. And that is all I am looking for in a sea of clothes, striped silk and always argyle. I am looking for his mane, peppered beard; the man more than the spirit that I have been promised will remain.
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