I
want to scrawl, to crawl in the dark. But they say one for all, and
none for me. So I take a step back and try to breathe. There's
nothing erotic about this auto asphyxiation. I crane my neck trying
to get a better look in the mirror. But all I can see in my eyes are
headlines. She embraces my thighs, because she isn't tall enough to
reach my heart. She kisses my loins, because we can't see eye to eye.
And she bleeds, not from her veins, but from her eye. And I lean down
to wipe away her tears, and my hand comes back smelling like the
grave. She wants to go home, but we burnt it down. She wants me to
say I love her, but she bit off my tongue.
My
teeth, my lips, and my eyes are all set immovable in my head, a face
that won't react to the cold or to the wind. Lightning flashes out in
the West, and I wish it would strike me. The storm came and went, and
I wish I could follow it. She feeds the clouds, and engorges the fog.
Bitter, bitter is the taste of her on my lips, though she has never
pressed her flesh to my teeth. Salty is the taste of my shame in my
mouth, so I grumble and complain, staring at the blank walls. I reach
my hand deep into myself and clutch my totem, that fragment of
reality to tether me to the unhappy world. I withdraw and recoil into
it. Betrayal, that abysmal reversal. I remove my hand and open my
palm, this little black crayon will guide me back to clarity. So I
scribble, and revise, and conjure mighty sonnets to the One who has
no Name. I am a nothing man, and I know that I am meant for something
more.
I
stare up, wishing the rain was acid to burn my skin away, letting my
soul ooze, and drip, and slither free into the ether. But it sits,
and abides, and remains in the withering hulk that those strange
women call a body. I tried breaking my bones, but they wouldn't
budge. So I sat on the pavement hoping no one knew what I was. I am
reminded of a haze of glory, a simple little light I once huddled
around, a lover in my arms. I struggle to recall what she called it;
God? Remorse? Rejuvenation? Or did she say it was us? So long ago she
spoke to me, I am afraid I have lost the memories, like a raindrop in
the stormy sea.
I
checked the mailbox, only to find full of emptiness. I return,
slumped, and down-cast, and ready to rot. But, damn, she's there
waiting for me, with a smile on her lips, and a fire in her fist. She
wants to dance, but I tell her I broke my legs, she sees through it,
but won't press the matter. So we sit and speak, and reminisce, and
refuse to cry. She puts her arm around me, and sighs with comfort, I
stiffen, refusing to believe what I am feeling. She looks up at me,
and her face changes. I stagger back, and I put my hands up. I am
done with these lies, these nightmares, these Are-Nots. I made so
many mistakes, but I am trying to learn from them, she won't have my
saliva, or my hair, or my warmth ever again.
I
take a journey, across empty streets and decaying bricks. I take a
trip over and under what men say is real, and I can't see the reason
why so many flee from it all. I like it here, and I think he likes
me. So why should I pretend I am something other than what they made
me into. Smiles are like little crickets, making noise, but doing no
harm. So I take it all with a grain of a salt. She wouldn't want me
to dwell on the negative, she doesn't like it when I refuse to watch
the sunrise. I really try, I really do, but she wants something I
can't give her yet. Her eyes are all pale glass and little dreams.
And I wish she would just kiss me once and for all, at least then I
could pretend to sleep. But here I am still wondering why she looks
at me the way she does, doesn't she know I am a madman? Oh well, what
she doesn't know is bound to kill her.
Surprise,
I was the hangman all along, and no one saw that coming. So they pay
their taxes, and read their bibles, and point at laugh at me and my
dreams. So daring, so ecstatic, so lost, or so they tell me. But, I
can't abide their empty words anymore. If I wanted to freeze to
death, I'd masturbate in space. They can't catch what they don't
believe in. So me and my eyeless bride will laugh and dance, and flip
the bird until our fingers wither into dust. And no one knows the
Winter like I do. So spin and twirl and pretend you know what you're
doing, and you'll fit right in.
And
again she tries to embrace me in her static grip, and again I spit
out what she tried to feed me. This other one reminds of me of Spring
and Wonder. This other one knows what's best for a man like me.
Broken playthings are dangerous to scorn, you never know how far
they'll go to feel whole again.
What's
this? Oh, it's my reflection, funny I looked like a princess. But
that is a radical notion, men aren't supposed to want to be whole and
free. So I make a public apology to the world, but he's not paying
attention, the war demands all his fury. So, while I am hiding in the
shadows I grip my totem yet again, and close my eyes visualizing a
world with only me and her in it. And it's a freaky, off-kilter
place. But I know she'll appreciate the time and anger that went into
the crafting of it. I know she'll respect my dreams. I stand up and
arrive in my new kingdom. She didn't want to join me, so I let her
stay wherever she was in first place. After I am gone she starts to
drool a little and loose sight of her own name. So she opens up her
heart and grips something that lays within her rosy imaginings. She
sighs, knowing it's time for a new beginning. She reluctantly strips
down to the bone and stands for all to see. She doesn't care anymore,
she knows what she has to do, so she reaches in with her left hand
and pulls out her own little black crayon.
She
makes worlds, and dictates eons, so fragile and so enduring. Jealousy
weals up in me, and I spit it out. Then I see her for what she is,
another sailor on the sea of dreams and insufferable questions. We'll
meet again, on some forgotten shore, on some half-remembered island,
where no one can tell us not to spell words the way we think best.
Her and me we're blood brothers, blood sisters in a war without
sides. So we can make love, and giggle at sophomoric jokes, and no
one can tell us we did it wrong. Fragility is really the best path to
lasting strength, didn't the carpenter say as much? He was on to
something, but I think we really need to run with his ideas, and not
be afraid where the truth takes us.
A rainbow spanned in a box of crayons is nice, a whole plethora of possibilities to explore. But both me and her know which one is best.
So take this as a formal invitation to join us on our quest for humor
and truth. Sure a full box of crayons is lovely, but we know you'll
make the right choice and just chose one to take into the far off
unknown. Cheers, mate, see you on the other side.
