Words work as release — well-oiled doors opening and closing between intention, gesture. A pulse in a neck, the shiftiness of the hands, an unconscious blink, the conversations you have with your eyes translate everything and nothing. What will be needed, what goes unfelt, unsaid — what has been duplicated, redacted here, redacted there, altered to hide or disguise — words encoding the bodies they cover. And despite everything the body remains.
Occasionally it is interesting to think about the outburst if you would just cry out —
To know what you’ll sound like is worth noting —
In the darkened moment a body given blue light, a flashlight, enters with levity, with or without assumptions, doubts, with desire, the beating heart, disappointment, with desires —
Stand where you are.
You begin to move around in search of the steps it will take before you are thrown back into your own body, back into your own need to be found.
The destination is illusory. You raise your lids. No one else is seeking.
You exhaust yourself looking into the blue light. All day blue burrows the atmosphere. What doesn’t belong with you won’t be seen.
You could build a world out of need or you could hold everything black and see. You give back the lack.
You hold everything black. You give yourself back until nothing’s left but the dissolving blues of metaphor.
Sometimes “I” is supposed to hold what is not there until it is. Then what is comes apart the closer you are to it.
This makes the first person a symbol for something.
The pronoun barely holding the person together.
Someone claimed we should use our skin as wallpaper knowing we couldn’t win.
You said “I” has so much power; it’s insane.
And you would look past me, all gloved up, in a big coat, with fancy fur around the collar, and record a self saying, you should be scared, the first person can’t pull you together.
Shit, you are reading minds, but did you try?
Tried rhyme, tried truth, tried epistolary untruth, tried and tried.
You really did. Everyone understood you to be suffering and still everyone thought you thought you were the sun — never mind our unlikeness, you too have heard the noise in your voice.
Anyway, sit down. Sit here alongside.
Exactly why we survive and can look back with furrowed brow is beyond me.
It is not something to know.
Your ill-spirited, cooked, hell on Main Street, nobody’s here, broken-down, first person could be one of many definitions of being to pass on.
The past is a life sentence, a blunt instrument aimed at tomorrow.
Drag that first person out of the social death of history, then we’re kin.
Kin calling out the past like a foreigner with a newly minted “fuck you.”
Maybe you don’t agree.
Maybe you don’t think so.
Maybe you are right, you don’t really have anything to confess.
Why are you standing?
Listen, you, I was creating a life study of a monumental first person, a Brahmin first person.
If you need to feel that way — still you are in here and here is nowhere.
Join me down here in nowhere.
Don’t lean against the wallpaper; sit down and pull together. Yours is a strange dream, a strange reverie.
No, it’s a strange beach; each body is a strange beach, and if you let in the excess emotion you will recall the Atlantic Ocean breaking on our heads.
Yesterday called to say we were together and you were bloodshot and again the day carried you across a field of hours, deep into dawn, back to now, where you are thankful for
what faces you, the storm, this day’s sigh as the day shifts its leaves, the wind, a prompt against the calm you can’t digest.
Blue ceiling calling a body into the midst of azure, oceanic, as ocean blushes the blues it can’t absorb, reflecting back a day
the day frays, night, not night, this fright passes through the eye crashing into you, is this you?
Yes, it’s me, clear the way, then hold me clear of this that faces, the storm carrying me through dawn
not knowing whether to climb down or up into its eye — day, hearing a breath shiver, whose are you?
Guard rail, spotlight, safety lock, airbag, fire lane, slip guard, night watch, far into this day are the days this day was meant to take out of its way. An obstacle
to surrender, dusk in dawn, held open, then closing,
then opening, a red-tailed hawk, dusk at dawn, taking over blue, surveying movement, against the calm, red sky at morning,
whose are you?
In line at the drugstore it’s finally your turn, and then it’s not as he walks in front of you and puts his things on the counter. The cashier says, Sir, she was next. When he turns to you he is truly surprised.
Oh my God, I didn’t see you.
You must be in a hurry, you offer.
No, no, no, I really didn’t see you.
You wait at the bar of the restaurant for a friend, and a man, wanting to make conversation, nursing something, takes out his phone to show you a picture of his wife. You say, bridge that she is, that she is beautiful. She is, he says, beautiful and black, like you.
Leaving the day to itself, you close the door behind you and pour a bowl of cereal, then another, and would a third if you didn’t interrupt yourself with the statement — you aren’t hungry.
Appetite won’t attach you to anything no matter how depleted you feel.
You lean against the sink, a glass of red wine in your hand and then another, thinking in the morning you will go to the gym having slept and slept beyond the residuals of all yesterdays.
Yes, and you do go to the gym and run in place, an entire hour running, just you and
your body running off each undesired desired encounter.