Dreamstate in the Meantime
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2006-03-15
So I missed you, angelwing.

I missed the shape of you in my life. Your music. Your song, those bows on those violins lifting and curling those tight little spins. It's art, just the trying.


"And we all fall down slackjawed to marvel at words..."

Do you ever wish you could vomit up whole years, whole epochs, whole eras? The Triassic? So you could try again new? All that hot ash and moist air? All those lowing brachiosauri? The neon sunrises. Those too. You'd do better than that, this time. You've got better words now. You've circumnavigated, love, and come to the exact same spot.

You dream of planes, crashing soft as they are wont to do. Always in D.C. if D.C. were Beijing and Colorado or some spot in between. It looks like the dinosaur dioramas in the museum, a fake wall only the Roadrunner can fake his way through and only because he's mute and won't stop for impossibilities. Beep, beep. That's a philosophy with certain merits.

It's sunny there and you didn't start out alone, but you end up that way. And you think about the sun shining out over the watercolored expanse looking like it is the Forbidden City from 40,000 feet up. A storybook starting.

But you wake up in the morning and say something like, What a silly dream? I wonder what it means.

Your heart knows and hates you for keeping quiet. It wants to make you spill your drink. Send you to the toilet to puke up the dead weight, wishes it could make you sick so at least you might be aware of the need to be aware of absence and presence.

Dust on the stones in the forbidden city.

Ask me anything and I'll give you and answer of swords. At least we'll keep that distance between us.

I want to ask for a key to the place where I live. I feel this would be a good first step.

Do you know how much I've missed you? The white space. I want to supplicate. I want to genuflect. But...but...but.

You came so close to following.

There's a lie. You were there. All the time. You didn't leave my body but for sleep and even sleep tethered you to my ankle. I don't like what they say. You're real enough. You keep my hours. You keep my days from being one long rush of electricity, one glass rictus I snap whips and carry chairs into.

If it's a sin, I'll stop. But no one ever tells you the small sins, not until you taste the rot, the rot of having lived your whole live committing them.

I guess it's funnier that way.

10:16 p.m. :: comment ::
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