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| November 26th, 2005: just let me die by mark 11/28/2005, 11:28pm PST | ||||
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| editor's note: It turned out scribble wasn't lying when he said all that stuff about guns blazing. He absolutely will not stop posting.
[26 Nov 2005|12:53pm] [ mood | dead inside ] Cocktail. still i crawl [26 Nov 2005|01:45pm] [ mood | israel hands ] [ music | dinosaur jr- little fury things ] Burn On the television, men & women are walking Out of a train station. You’re not well. Wrens Froth on the unlit streetlamps. Posters for long past soccer matches Glitter. Another anonymous half-morning. Faces in the crowd Are white & hot almost steaming in the loose Of morning rain. Children cry hot & furious tears. They have their fingers stuck In sewer grates. Businessmen shine like plumbs Stick their fingers in mouths then light them. Exhaling deeply. Chocolate smoke. They carry dingy old Briefcases that they are curiously attached To. They glance. Every skirt is damp Strollers pulse with apples. Vendors with small metal carts call out To lost dogs. Lettering peels. Peppers roast. A man Talks to the sky. To the lint To the birds. Something that has happened Before happens again. Men & women Walk back into the station. Their faces Lean with hunger. When did you last eat. There’s sand in everything. Must it all cling so. Do the girls have to laugh so Convincingly. Their fingers pirouetting In the air. You’re in an airport bar. You’re Watching this. & you’re in high school Again. You’re in high school again. Those Moments between classes that you took home With you. They are still there. Wrapped around You. Nothing can come near. You’ve been wrapping Duct tape around your fingers so that your cigarettes Won’t burn them. Nothing can touch you. & yet Something has. What is it? It has happened Before. But there is another drink In front of you, as pearled & red as a glass full Of cranberries. It’s through the glass that you See the station begin to change. There is a flash Of light through the pink glass & then a great ball Of darkness. Clusters of flame, like the insides Of a pomegranate, swell out of the shadow & shale. Flames erupt upward from the station & move into the street, everything they touch bursts Like a berry squeezed between two fingers. The cars Are all connected how did you miss the invisible thread? The web visible brilliantly visible everything a part of Something as it swells into nothing. Cars swelling to Crescendo- fire is only a description of this. This lovely palatial shatter this match into music. It is so quick isn’t it this wound licking itself Into a tantrum of color Each man’s arms fly upward As they are touched dark red umbrellas spinning Into shard oh it is so musical It is an autumn shiver A kaleidoscope of leaves across The screen they are so thick & clear The red pulses through them Rising up & falling down like the waters of A sudden fountain Petals of water flashing through until They are all white they are all dancing & then as suddenly They are not. Someone has changed the channel. You pull The duct tape from your fingers they are discolored & pale The insides of the tape a patched brown. What rock have You been keeping yourself under. You rewrap The tape with great care. There was something you were Supposed to do. What was it. 2 comments|post comment [26 Nov 2005|02:34pm] [ mood | you have no idea ] [ music | elliott smith- i figured you out ] I miss C. post comment [26 Nov 2005|02:36pm] I only like the first stanza too. post comment [26 Nov 2005|02:44pm] WHERE IS EVERYBODY post comment [26 Nov 2005|02:49pm] Help me 2 comments|post comment [26 Nov 2005|02:53pm] Please. 3 comments|post comment [26 Nov 2005|02:55pm] Before it's too late. 7 comments|post comment [26 Nov 2005|03:18pm] [ mood | just let me die ] [ music | elliott smith- needle in the hay ] The Bridge We’re walking on a bridge in an old Italian city There’s a white gardenia in your hair It is summer & the windows on every building Have been opened for the first time. Light Hangs off them like clothing left to dry. Light Flakes off & descends, snakes through the crowd Spins itself into the coffee you hold like a votive Candle, both hands, light is everywhere It is like the first snow & it is summer. I move to kiss you & you pull away then pull me in & when you pull away again There is a spot of blood on your mouth & an expression that Says yes that says Yes, I will. Children wearing sailor caps Are licking chocolate off their hands, the chocolate Actually steaming. Rats play in the blonde water. There are hundreds of them, rolling over each other & biting At the sun. This man to our left, in an apricot blouse With a still bleeding hole in his ear Is screwing the head off a small dog, He is actually only petting it, I can see that Now. It is just that it twists in his arms As if unwilling. Above us the thick meringue of the clouds moves As if on strings. It seems like it’s going to rain But it won’t. I brush your face with my fingertips, a gesture I know you hate. I catch my fingers in the lampblack Of your hair. A coal with wings alights on your knuckles Dances across them like a coin. Two men stare at you & then back again At a shock of red & black cloth. They are not sure what it is. What is it for. Their luggage- they have it all Here for some reason- is as white as coconut milk except for the Clasps, which are lime green & resemble the embossed Talons of a bird.. They sound Like they are talking about trains. They are gravely Talking about ways to avoid Killing birds. But no, they’re not. They could as easily Be talking about the calf colored plaza in the distance Or the septic reek of their hotel room The ways That water has failed them. Their German Is a thick, unctuous gel. But I think they are Talking about the dazzle of freckles Across your shoulders, your summer skin, the honey In you, showing. They are talking about how your talk Begins to sparkle in the still blue air like dust That catches the sun & will not relinquish it Even in the darkness. Nothing else makes Sense. Today nothing makes sense. Men pour aperitifs into patent Black leather shoes & stare at them mournfully. Would it make More or less sense if they drank from them. Someone has To tell me. These women stand as if in postcards Or glass cases, all hips & breasts & sway old earthen jugs That have begun to crack. Fertility statues, the lot of them With feathered purses That have to be smothered against hips.. Look how carefully they finger their cell-phones. Eggs have never been held this gentle. Look at these women Carrying nests. They are so careful But not careful enough. Through the surgical gauze of the coming afternoon Everyone looks either barely hurt Or barely repaired. But there is nothing with the sharpness Of the exactly perceived. Not even the icicle sharp Of the Pinot Grigio a withered divorcee Is holding to the light as if to look For impurities in it. But look at That shard of antelope wine Someone has dropped their keys in it Have they decided not to go, not ever. Is there a door that will remain Forever closed. Look at this bust of a goldsmith Whose name, in Italian, mean welcome. He doesn’t Seem to miss his limbs. His beard is something Out of a marina. & yet savage. Imagine a shattering Aquarium & then imagine a face. & around it a low fence with locks Attached to every inch- coral is not this thorough. Coral is not this cruel. It is a custom, it has been made cruel Through repetition. Couples stroll up to the fence &, after writing their Initials on the lock, fasten it to the fence & then let Slip the key into the water which shines with the dull Luster of coffee. There’s something Moving about a promise to never leave, made By throwing something away. There’s something Forlorn that I choose to call noble, in the loud pretending That promises can be made & not broken. It’s the first tradition I’ve ever wanted to be a part of. Doesn’t sadden Me like Christmas or weary me like Easter. I want To be a part of this I want to be wholly typical Even if I do not believe. Even if I know. But it’s not a very clean river the surface looks like it’s Been stir-fried. The twigs floating in it are curved & pubic. Water beetles are the heavy red of rose petal Left to darken in the street.. Festival after-math. Something confused in their here-&-there. Their crawling Out of the water & back in. You have that effect on them. The delirium of you. Look at you fingering the locks. Do you want me to steal them. The clusters Vaguely crustacean, But also like wings. They flutter In the breeze that the rats the huge black rats seek to catch In their teeth. How do the rats know The breeze is a piece of you. How can I fight Them back. Here is a silk shop like a white tiger. Coming at you. Here is a dress as ethereal as the reflection of a woman In a shop window. Here is a political slogan in pigeon English. Here if a fool who thinks being against war Is the same as being for life. Here is a patio bar With girls hardening on bar stools As if the last word they heard removed the last chip from them That was not them. & here is the citrus idea of you Your talk Filling me to the brim. How did I ever live this long without Being completely in my skin? Who mopped up the horizon? I miss the clouds. Don’t you Miss them. They never hurt anyone. & they resembled Saints. The gentle in the sky versions of them. Don’t you Miss em. The Saturday morning of them. Someone holding a plate of bicycle blue china Raises a monocle to their eye no it is a tiny cup of espresso Everyone has them but why did he pour it in his eye You’ll never know But you will remember. Just as I can’t forget That every week someone paid by the state, Comes out to the Ponte Vecchio & gets rid of all the locks all the promises Why does someone always have to do that Everywhere I go, someone is always getting rid Of the promises. In every high school & upscale bar. Someone is getting rid Of the promises. They have a city badge. They listen to heavy metal They wear heavy garb the sort that can’t just Be taken off but must be peeled. Must be cut. It must be cut. Everyone here is having a problem With their hands. Everyone here is carrying White roses, singly or in bouquet The scent of coffee is overpowering It is as if we will be forever waking up. Don’t you want that. Everyone here has star tattoos or else whole Sleeves they have dipped their arms in autumn. Is it Autumn? The leaves are red with embarrassment how terrible it must be to be a leaf, to be A puzzle unfolding. The seasons are only so much music That you dance to. They are only so many songs Written for you. The small men carved out of wood Their faces ridiculous with hope They are selling them to you. Their geraniums Are just a distraction. The dressmakers Are spelling your name. That’s what those gowns Mean. Don’t you know that? My partner in crime My valentine don’t you know that you are the only Secret worth stealing. You are the secret The fire won’t share. The pickpockets the music Of them they know their hands are just a way of paying Attention. I might kill them all. I might applaud I simply haven’t decided. Sometimes it is delicious To put off deciding. Like obsessing over the ring. Deciding to carry you over to the bed this moment Or the next. Here is a man on Risperdal walking through the day like A stuffed animal in a suit. Whisper Doll you say & it is Exactly right. You always say the right things like picking The exact right earring. You have all the right gifts. You have them for a while. I lose my sentence & you finish It for me. I’ve had too much wine & my matches Keep missing their cigarettes. My cigarettes keep Missing my lips. It’s been ten years & you still reduce me to nervous. I still wonder If the other kids will like me. As you watch me Walk toward a fountain surrounded by waiters In naval blue all of them considering throwing Their head in, it is that kind of fountain. & you have that effect on men. On clouds. & on Streets. That rush through this city like red wine Through the creases of an upturned palm. You’re my Fortune teller. You can throw knives. You can hurt me But you don’t. You make me describe the scene to you & suddenly I am a part of it. No one ever told me this could Happen. Not even that canary in its cage looking like a tiny Boat of gold. Where is it taking us? & why doesn’t it matter. Here is a man selling insurance in front of a cathedral. All the Cathedrals look the same. Their beauty is too uniform, too dental To remain holy. I haven’t worried about God since I met you. Not even during all those long days in the hospital. Watching nature flicks while the IV dripped. You held my hand. & that- even that- felt natural to me. How many ways have I thought To say this. How many things have I seen. Through the jewel Like flame of your words alone. They are selling carpets in The street. Oriental rugs that are somewhere between leopard & cream. A boy is turning his face to the sky as if to stop The stars from falling. He too is beautiful. But I don’t want to help him. Only to make a shirt of him. That you could wear while you sleep Because you sleep you sleep So well. We keep walking because that is what people do when they Don’t want anything more Than what they have. We keep finding the day & it smiles its gratitude. The day & its blood soaked biscotti. The day in its something more comfortable. The houses across the river are the brown of apple exposed To the air. The cobblestones have been up all night Polishing themselves to mirror. Is there anything here That doesn’t want to see you. Is there anything here That I can use as a weapon. Because, & for no reason I am afraid. The light is out of tune The lira on the ground. Has never been picked up before.. & never will be. & yet there is a shine to it. The dawn Is selling itself. The morning is pouring itself over You as if made of cider. You are what the day is Celebrating. & though it scares me. It is no small thing. The day humming as though it is a harp. What fingers Have moved to it . Be a part of all of this. Please. The white marble of the statuary. The bones in their careful wrapping. Remind me to be careful of you. That is why they are holy. That is why they are everywhere. Never underestimate the meaning Of the delicate. Or the beautiful. That brooch in its halogen & deer blood. How it lights the way To your chest. The sound of the water. As if to say it didn’t hurt Nearly as much as I thought it would. The jugglers drop Everything they toss. Cola light- shadows- across the marble figurines That I think are fucking but how cola The light. We could bring our kids here. If I could just buy you something. Prolong This moment Even the men seem to have Folded their wings in their vast Leather jackets. The jewelers hawk their wares In a language That actually sounds like earrings Wonderfully cheap ones, the sort That you can’t just buy but have to find & I know, suddenly & certainly, That I don’t want to find anyone But you. & in that moment of realization Something opens up within me that nothing Will be able to close Or fix. The river doesn’t seem so bad, all of a sudden. It’s not As cheap or as Japanese as I may have suggested. The river Is vintage green like a spread out coat, it is the gaudy Interior of it how nice & unabashed it is you could Date a river like this if not for very long…. but then The river too begins to thin No longer a river or a coat an ocean That rushes out but not to drown to glisten to give a waving Kelping green to the women selling puppies in rabbit cages & the gelato Shops selling elegiac yellow in iced white cups. Too beautiful to believe I bend to my head to lick an errant drop from the clouded White of your perfect Sand-written wrist. I listen. I list. Even The stained glass is in love with you. It has been following us Since mass. How you teach it to flash. The cats move in the gutter Like center-pieces that have crawled off the table. Leaves Stick to them. That calf colored plaza in the distance. It is really there. There are so many things I want to do. There are so many things I want to say. But sometimes there are only the days. & sometimes, They are enough. Take this day with its mangos & wolves Its sherbert coat & sad looking watches. Time Won’t pass here even time would not be that Cruel. This will last. Time can bend. & I am the storm. I cannot win. But I am the storm. Horses run very fast. That is How they say it. Poets let their feelings fly Like falcons. An animal will act hurt So that you can comfort it. I do not know What a man would do. Perhaps hold his wine To the light to see your face through it. But I’m just a kid. I am still Just a kid. & I have only this- The day in its strapless dress In its invitations & announcements in its sorbet That day selling pictures of itself in seven Different languages that day with its canes its walking Sticks in its box-like cars In its I’ll see you later Even though I won’t That day in its cheap ornamental frame That day as warm as your neck when I pressed My lips to it, that day as final As perfect as metal As any other way of saying. 11 comments|post comment |
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