| he exits a long hallway that i cannot see except for where he just appeared. i only know it is long because there are ten silent beings and the hardness of his tasseled dress shoes boom through dead air, beginning faintly and increasing until he is exactly at the exit. he wears a long khaki coat that automatically sparks images of my father; both thinking appearance is key. i observe every moment, slouching cross-legged with a stale, ashy taste in my mouth. my pants are too big and i can't recall the last time i washed my hands. and i know appearance only matters when you stare blankly at a mirror and start to think about life. as i secretly document this man, his voice is known when he exclaims "happy new year!" to a familiar younger man across the room. as he struts further along, his white hair moves, too. he is confident, bouncing through his wanted career. one piece of silky white sticks straight into the passing air which makes the corners of my mouth curve slightly upward. he walks right past my writing hand, and i think again of my father.
© january, 2006. |
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| our lack of words sickens me sometimes. the whole time i spend walking clumsily through unknowns, i see your face within every mutual glancer. i sat on a bench for awhile, alone, but the cold threw it's bitterness to me and it seared through my pants and the ache lingered there for hours. all we had wanted was that memory of us and i blew it by resistance. i would have rather us stay warm against each other with only my feet feeling any slight twinges of low temperatures. i struggle through lack of movement, and turn toward possibilities that are already familiar with this. |
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| the trees strewing their hawkish odors-
sometimes i think i am them while i'm sleeping.
i want their longevity,
the stars and their conversation.
i look sideways to my lover,
i feel the forest and the flowers can touch me now. |
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| over two months later in brooklyn.
i've never felt so dead, yet so alive. |
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