Saturday, October 17, 2020

All My Dogs are Dead

And now it is October. Errors which upon noticing we do not amend but strengthen through denial, projection, doubling-down, et cetera. It hurts, this body. Blind in her sight because she refuses to see me with eyes, and thus I am a monster, a mutation, when "all I ever wanted was to be loved." The great whale in the great sea and the hunters who think they have seen God's Face and yet still somehow manage to justify their weapons. Neither wake nor funeral but deathbed vigil. Bells toll, the wedding finishes, and the marriage begins to shadow the love that shadowed the parentless courtship. The perfect balance of his last breath, the tonal detonation - a long rasping sigh echoing - of the last exhalation. "Cool it, kid." Geese cry overhead, low tones obscured by clouds, and once again a longing to travel fills my heart. A fulcrum, a fault. Flowing around boulders. A force? In my soul it is always winter, snow falling on hemlocks, the river lost beneath enormous wedges of ice. October again or did I say that. The old drama to which I was consigned repeats and rather than indulge repetition I leave the theater and take up smoking. Fuck you Shakespeare, fuck you Saul of Tarsus and fuck you Sylvia Plath. Now begins the forgetting. My woman far away with the wrong man, all my dogs dead. And now there is this rain. Now it is raining. Now this. This again: this this. 

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