She unshook and shine and shook and shushed my busy worded mind. Paragraphs of blonde bright wheat and pretty feet in the insouciance of neverminds, hooray and how are you, I am never minding myself never, no, not yet, fine, thanks for asking and yourself. ? Have me in novella shapes because no novels are read for the casual cause of causerie. Sure enough, sure, someday we'll make beautiful sense, beautiful nonsense, or something, somehow. I have her skylight eyes stuck in mine, I have the first noun I need to make my move to an adjective, which she will find to make herself perfectly receptive, which will make it perfectly appropriate for perfectly placed commas, like this ,, when I kiss her square on her liquor pink lips, and pull my (arms) over her, whisper a parentheses sort of sentimental sort of saying, in dashes she'll be swept off her feet------- so to speak.
He pulled his arm out of the shower, dry and sour, and his mandolin fingers, well with those he knows he's going nowhere, except where he turns the dial, west, south, down, and water, hot, and under, he'll lay, peppered in circles, well he'll cook, he'll fucking burn up, there, and what can you do, but hear him the next morning, boiled and sour, his God awful banjo heart tangy and plum, cooked in his chest with bath tub lungs, and his mother will cry, in violin strings of salty streams, from her eyes to her knees, wondering was it my fault, was it my fault, oh God, oh God, let me weep to death, if you exist, if you exist I will weep my soul into the floor, and you can have it, you can keep it.
He laid what was left, from his backpack, from his life, he laid it out there, on the railroad tracks, he was tired of traveling, aimless and penniless, sick and bruised, he was tired of his dreamless sleepless nights; he wanted dreams again, he dreamt of this before but what he had really wanted all along was just to sleep, because dreaming is easier than moving, and so he laid out his life, out there on the tracks, from his backpack, and he watched a train just like the ones that he used to take, he watched it come and go, over everything left that he had owned, and he said there, now I can let go, I can start over, and he walked down the hill, into the high grass, and he slept as long as he could stand to sleep, inbetween the passing trains, the birds waking, and the earthworms kissing the insides of his arms and underneath his neck; inbetween the shouts from the neighbors, the grasshoppers crying in his hair, and the sun standing still halfway over the hills; inbetween the footsteps marching somersaults of sound, the house by the creek whining with screened door sounds, and the Spring trees aching for growth; inbetween the beating of his heart and the rest of the world and the woman who finally said "oh my God I think he's dead." So he started counting down the days of the week, saying so long, farewell. He didn't have time really to see his life go by in a flash, or a train, he just kind of left. Out of his body, not really up or down, left or right, no stairs or wings, just was suddenly somewhere else. And there was this voice, that sounded familiar but he could not remember the name of, this sexless voice talking to him. It said things like well, here you are, you've finally died. And nothing really symapthetic, all considering, but oddly consoling nontheless. He kept feeling his chest with his palm, trying to get used to not having a heartbeat. While this voice kept going it's not bad, maybe unexpected... And he was trying to listen but didn't really care. He looked around and the scenery started to gradually fill in, like crayons and colorbooks. A house, a kitchen, a stove with brown stains, windows bathed in purple and dandelion shades. It was familiar but wasn't, like the voice that was still talking. You know, you lose your imagination here, but after a while you should forget what it was like to have one... And he is about to panic, because everything looks familiar but not quite and he feels sick to his stomach and finally the voice explains to him, it's okay, calm down. The thing is, we don't remember things in life exactly how they were, over time we add in imagination, we add in colors, we switch things around. That's why it's only half familiar. And see, if you were listening you would have heard me say that the afterlife isn't after your life, it's sort of during your life. You live in your memories, you get to walk around, watch them, and relive the emotions. That's why you feel so weird now, this memory was from when you were six and your dog ran away, and your mom blamed you, because you let him out without his leash, and you were ridden with guilt. But don't worry, I'll show you how to get in a different memory and eventually you can find a nice one. Hey, are you listening? "But all I ever did was dream, I never lived." I know. That's why there's no people in these memories, you spent too much time sleeping and living in your own head to remember anyone well enough to recreate them here. It's funny, a lot of people think life is pointless, but being alive is all there is. A train rushed by, suddenly, through the house that he was in, like wind. He stepped back and started to understand. The voice continued. So you can jump onto that train if you want, but you didn't travel very long or see very much before you gave up. He watched the train pass and asked "but there must be someone else, somewhere." Unfortunately for us, I'm the only one you remember well enough, and I'm just your subconscious, sort of, pretty much, for the lack of a better word, and so it's just you and me, for however long forever is.
Wed, Jun. 28th, 2006, 04:11 pm
A streetlight is feathered in ice. Niagara falls billows in cold clouds. His hands in his pockets, his breath waving with comma wings through the air. He does not follow the paragraphs of footsteps in the snow. He makes his own. Even the horse shoes in the river are not as eager to make an impression as him.
Sat, Jun. 3rd, 2006, 11:20 am
The Crown City
A lion's mane in ropes and roots, shaking his laugh through the cobwebs of marijuana hanging from the ceiling and climbing out of the lips of his friends. We crowd in and the pipe is passed and the colors are undisturbed by my breath. The lion is watching me curiously and telling me about the bottles of rum in his house on the east side of the city. He says he moved out because he was tired of being an alcoholic, and the west side is full of weed instead of rum and now he can't leave, he can't find another side to the city, he only moves horizontally.
The wind carried an empty dress across my road. I hit the brakes. The dress hurried its limbless self across my windshield as I stumbled to a stop. I watched the sunlight turn the transparent cloth into an aquarium of green before rolling off my car. Not sure what had just happened, my brother suggested that I may have ran over a ghost. If that were possible. I glanced into the backseat, expecting to see the naked body that might have once filled that dress. She was there, alright. Her legs crossed, pretty little toes clenched like knuckles. Her face was bruise and bluebell hyacinth. The lips that harvested her wheat smile spread across her face when she noticed me. I stared for a while before remembering my manners and was about to introduce myself but my brother sneezed instead. She blew out the window like a handful of dandelions, the dress waiting for her with a wide open neck on the lawn.
Wed, May. 24th, 2006, 11:48 pm
He stretched his arms out like a crucifix and attempted to make amends with his wife, who was centered on a park bench underneath a rainbow umbrella watching him without her curiosity intact. He told her about God, how he was being cleansed and how good it felt to be free. His arms remained out and ready, palms upturned to catch his atonement, which he said would fall from heaven. Then it started to rain, and his sorries fled downhill and into the pond with the ducks, and the frogs, and the dragonfly who couldn't keep his wings to himself. The wife put down her umbrella. She hugged her husband, her thin arms tightening under his lifted shoulders. She told him he could convince himself of anything so well that she was convinced. And so, for the moment, God existed.
Two nights out of harbor. The anchored expression of a man who wants nothing more than to go back home. Lonely waves wishing for company. A shipwreck on purpose, a long breast stroke to shore.
Sun, Dec. 11th, 2005, 01:51 am
And she lolls those olive eyes round those shoulders, she makes up her fancy in fingerpaints. She has been touched in brushes, random and unaccounted for. There's been one sky over another, like layers of sheets, she has been climbing through them, she has been hoping for an opening, she has been twisting in blisters and popping her limbs until finally accepting her grounded fate. She has been letting her shoes do the talking. Those sure steps with smiles on the soles. People ask her why her snowy footprints are suddenly grinning and she replies "it's just where I'm going, where I'm going to go."
Sat, Dec. 10th, 2005, 12:48 am
I keep seeing ghosts. They press their faces against the window and smudge it with their breaths. They throw their shadows in my hall and fall upon my bed, creak with the springs and pull down the sheets. They whisper and they yell and they dance. They put on this whole little parade but I usually sleep right through it, I'm so goddamn tired all the time. Sometimes I wake up and catch one of them laughing or knocking on the closet door. I tell them to keep it down but they're determined to be a loud sound in my quiet gray. They say "wake up wake up, we're dead and we live louder than you" and I just tell them shut up shut up I'm too tired to.