Thursday, January 08, 2009

moments

at this moment, everything is stable and not a thing hurts. the sick ache of disappointment is a just a memory of things past and a thing coming down the road at us. let the coroner know that at this very moment of my life a purge adequate enough for a Brooklyn plumber was released from my tender heart to disappear for now into the black city smog. there is sure calm before the storm, and as we both lick our wounds and prepare for a bigger and badder disaster i will keep a memory of the moment i first met those brown feline eyes. the moment i lost my self preservation in the high winds. the moments spend at the nape, unreclaimable. the moment it stopped, and i breathed like a high. like a sweet spot of cold air. the moment it stopped. the moment history taps your skull and says adieu.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

Molly

Molly pissed off months ago and though she has barely gotten a few steps away, she writes frequently as though she were in china already; it simply isn't. She said she might like a boy with smaller dreams and a love for fine arts and martinis - I replied I would like a girl who could put up a fight and who gagged the first time I made her drink whiskey shots, whom I could re-educate on the shitty poets of our modern times as though she might have appreciated them in passing so far. It made for a good war dance, and the makeup was very convincing.

I wrote, several times, like hot sand through my fist.

A friend convinces me I have a mythical condition called a block - like the inverse disruption of the bowel - that keeps my words from coming up from the fetid pits of my organs to my mouth. I told him only people with a deadline have the luxury of these fancy diseases. My vocabulary was sharp and on track, he offered.

Molly went at a time when life was tame, and more placid than anytime before - and it was like a long day before the storm when you watch for lightning long enough you damn well do it yourself. You jump up with a pistol and knock holes in the barn wall as an act of effigy, you burn bridges out of sheer complacence when the conversation is nothing more than a vanilla past and a future of endlessness.

Molly went with less than a whirlwind, but a planned withdrawal like a will decree and a mortgage sign off. It hurt like leaving a hotel. She thinks I hate her small town ways. I think she deserves a less straightforward maniac.