Sunday, February 18, 2007

Un-fruthered and furlong

Sometimes, rooftops strike up their own mindsets, and produce cotton balls out of the sky - it's really much nicer than we think, but bad music still bothers me sometimes. After a while though, bad starts sounding like more syllables, stars look moving, and there's an owl up the top, heavy, fake, false-toothed, without a grin. I wonder, if people are watching me through it as I dance about with less care than you need be aware of, less flirt, more appreciation of the lack of modesty nobody really has. I wonder, if anything ever went on, or wrong. If anything ever actually ever evered. Maybe Eve would know, but she appears quite dead, if ever existent.
I am sure missing cannot be a described emotion that doctors give you- what do they know, them crackpotted plants. Quotes don't come so easily these days - but I've found your perfect replacement. Although in truth he isn't, he doesn't know how, he doesn't know why, or who the pictures say you are, or me, really - we're just tangled in bad singing, and Lou Reed, and how he sings worse than Bob Dylan, and me, and me, and I. And I sleep while dreaming - awake and loving a giraffe. We have no babies, and hell if we can make them. Or up.
Sometimes, I believe that these days do not exist. You are not here to validate them.
I am not - knotted to the noteworthy nightingale, who doesn't sing in the desert, or here, or here in the desert - I never liked it anyway, damn birds - they're all yours, all yours, I just want to keep breathing in their rain, and my cancer.
Carolyn Forche has cancer. Maybe that's the way all poets have to go. We take little care. I'm not a poet, either. I'm not either either. I am dangling off a lampshade, hoping to reach the switch, but like Sysiphus, I am just a bit too tricky.
I hope one day, I will write to you with just the purpose of saying I'm in love.
For now, I keep feeling little, but complacently so.


Response by Claire Shefchik:

There are times when far is the best one can do under a circumstance that by no fault of its own allows closeness to cloy. These are as follows, on the queen battleship on the waves' crown, in the cabin, and at the gold-leafed station of the heart. I take everything with me. The rolling, the rolling, the rollingstone. And a mossy pebble for walking. A birch cane in the toad-hole.
Some days there are so many streets in foreign cities I picture us walking on that I can do nothing but eat a bowl of chili. Winter is a winner here, a frozen panting sculpture of a swan that you can buy in stores. It's the beginning of rest, the buri-ment of anxieties and insecurities that are hidden in the place below that it occurred to me once last week will be always.
Last night our chef went to Tucson and I cried for her to be there. And that could only be mine, mine to miss and win, and to admit that there are things that can be both, the jeweled scepters from the horseshoe times. And until I can allow, one autumn, to cry for someplace that once long ago was new, there will nothing heal. And right now in southern times there is sun and girls are singing there next to cacti and bicycles and young unicorns with ruby eyes, and all this is on what I have closed my eyes, and yet I know that I am capable of making at least one decision that I don't regret, rue or lament. So from the stone circle I have returned to winter, and this is the best I have done.

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