How can I explain anything? Praying between naps, curled up on the floor like a cat. The Man-without-Shoes is now lost in a series of relationships that seem to be disappearing the way the more pleasant aspects of childhood disappear. The elegance of her removing her shirt in that Albany motel, poetry culled from used bookstores stacked on the tiny table to her left (Corso and McGrath predominating), a bottle of Jameson I'd end up drinking alone days later, devastated for what would turn out to be years. What does it mean to say a certain light is dusty, mottled, gray? Seeing faces all the time now - in raindrops, hedge rows, drifting clouds - so something is changing but what. There are caverns in the skull of the blind horse where once the light rendered whole worlds of precise detail, in one of which we lived together. I hear it overhead now, death drawing a last cold breath before sweeping its scythe from east to west. Will you meet me in liminal gossamer? May I go down on you a last time, jacking off when you come? A song that prepares us to travel, a road that prepares us to sing. Heavy rain where the soul once lived. Lines from letters that thirty years later still speak. Those who have ears, indeed.
Post a Comment