"Now..
disappear.. quickly, insanely,
nothing else.
Fully and without any hints,
regret.
regret.
Violently, to feel deserted.
& you want to."
Three bridges, and we walked along, and I went back to
sleep.
I searched for the buildings engraved with our father Marx’s face but the streets of Chinatown refused to reveal.
I walked head up looking for the marks and maybe for some other hints of things I thought you might have seen, many times, before me. Which direction should I take?
This small street curves sharply from both directions – each time, at the middle, hope think the second half might be different, darker - instead one would only find the same
bars and candy stores and restaurants…
We had walked it twice. Newcomer, but with the warmth of one memory to harm me, this searching game felt both maddening and necessary.
In my attempts to lose... I mean, wanting the opposite -
Thought that by acting out an old tragic comedy, playing all the parts and especially in different streets and at different times, that you would fall through,
the corners of the story.
Old enough and fragile enough to keep a tremble;
the comedic of me acting it out for you in the streets, wanting to call you with it, wanting to create the image of a chagrined, slightly angry, but rather unconcerned king, talking with his hands and mouth full.
During the last weeks in the city, I couldn’t stay away from - -
The first step seems to be - - accidentally done but in this case - - duty was to undo desire
So I would bury my brother and call to session debates about land and rule
Body barred from the decaying cave of Naica, repeating a refrain about stray tears and straights I wrote cheap imaginary letters, imitation.
No brothers or sisters could take up the task.
I stacked some books absently in a charity bookstore above the river’s mark
I pulled out my teeth from maidan for a salute to the already saluting Lenin, 19, then 20 o’clock &
I imagined you serving wine for the opening reception, your reserve flowing into charm.
I persisted in the charade the length of my departure.
I searched for the buildings engraved with our father Marx’s face but the streets of Chinatown refused to reveal.
I walked head up looking for the marks and maybe for some other hints of things I thought you might have seen, many times, before me. Which direction should I take?
This small street curves sharply from both directions – each time, at the middle, hope think the second half might be different, darker - instead one would only find the same
bars and candy stores and restaurants…
We had walked it twice. Newcomer, but with the warmth of one memory to harm me, this searching game felt both maddening and necessary.
In my attempts to lose... I mean, wanting the opposite -
Thought that by acting out an old tragic comedy, playing all the parts and especially in different streets and at different times, that you would fall through,
the corners of the story.
Old enough and fragile enough to keep a tremble;
the comedic of me acting it out for you in the streets, wanting to call you with it, wanting to create the image of a chagrined, slightly angry, but rather unconcerned king, talking with his hands and mouth full.
During the last weeks in the city, I couldn’t stay away from - -
The first step seems to be - - accidentally done but in this case - - duty was to undo desire
So I would bury my brother and call to session debates about land and rule
Body barred from the decaying cave of Naica, repeating a refrain about stray tears and straights I wrote cheap imaginary letters, imitation.
No brothers or sisters could take up the task.
I stacked some books absently in a charity bookstore above the river’s mark
I pulled out my teeth from maidan for a salute to the already saluting Lenin, 19, then 20 o’clock &
I imagined you serving wine for the opening reception, your reserve flowing into charm.
I persisted in the charade the length of my departure.
No comments:
Post a Comment