Monday, April 23, 2012
"she wrote her phone number in machine gun bullets
on his bedroom wall before she left," her friend announced, laughed.
then she remembered a movie about a woman who forgot
black lace has its own signal like smoke.
the beautiful and the doomed trace
their names in sand at night with sticks;
murmured spells of backward - almost swallowed
to digest the possibility of stillness and holding.
a tear in the page of her plans
where his indifference belied itself and ripped;
stares and a noise like clearing the throat.
this silence harbours adjustment and tunes.
in order to reach the destination she has to remain
true to a course of vitamin-ideas.
he strides about dunes or deals hands
escapes and games for the unknown to appear closer.
muscles in her arms and legs flex in random jolts
they visit each other supernaturally with drunken songs.
the neighbourhood pretends alarm
while their conversations set up targets.
the distance between two countries is a long letter
or a difference in how tea is prepared.
between a man and a woman the measurement changes
according to how their listening is regarded by the other.
then falsehoods work the rest into news
or parcels of assistance towards comfort.
she stands here now with eyed messages
a fistful of hard candy and the leash of her art.
the most difficult thing to stand inside is almost asleep
and then next, the half-open entrance.
she stood in a doorway and shook with want
a cold and desperate decision to deny access.
the house did not collapse but filled with voices.
not finished with suspense nor with pulling.
how long does this bridge need to be?
why are they both tunnelling like half-dressed miners?
the mysterious way poetry reveals what I'm really thinking to myself is one of the great pleasures and also, a trial since I am so tired this moment I can barely stay awake.
adjustment to life here in NZ is going all right but I wish I was back across the Pacific Ocean and could enjoy some actual conversations, instead of imagined dialogue and these half-waking dreams I have, constantly.
it feels as wonderful as being dressed in the finest fabrics and given the best food, then being held and hugged and kissed with true kindness to be so beautifully welcomed home by so many people. but there was not enough time in each place across Am er i ca for my liking. i keep seeing a road I did not take and thinking of something else I could've said, or a better way I may've listened. spellbound and recently converted to a broader, deeper consciousness I am a fool still and always, really too impatient and dumb with longing to understand what to do next, but at least I could sleep now. I hope to find a better light tomorrow.
Posted by Brightspark Books at 2:42 AM