ResistedNormalcy

Sit here, write this, don’t worry about anything else but this word and this sentence and this moment, sitting here, with the screen in front of you (clawing, begging, draining), and the day becoming later and later and then early, abominably early, morning hours of the next day. The next day.

“This is blather,” she says, a putty stream (shrimplike pink, dissolving as I write), with nothing but the need to get something going; the initial fuel (I whisper obscenities to you, slippery and liberating) and the rest climbs upward from the momentum. Momentum. Did I tell you, the momentum is in your soft eyes and they way they swim, perceptively, and the way the boundary between your flickering iris and your black pupil (darker than ever) mutely disintegrates. Dilating. Oh, oh, oh.

You possess a certain anonymity, faceless here or disconnected with me here (pretentious me: here), but let me whisper your name for once, so they know (freckled, curious, kara).

Round, hinged, 10:02am that injects a certain cure, to pacify the missing and the corporeal absence (your not-body and not-laughter, more heavy than all of you multiplied). Little more than two years, it’s nothing to what lies ahead, and I know (but where does it begin again).

This is our paragraph, our word, our slim compass that can’t tell time, only direction.

It’s all pressed into the intervals. The series of days that are everything shaved down and pressed into a bedspring coil, like a poem, so small it’s meteoric. The single moment more powerful than ten-thousand years.

Filed under: Blather on June 13th, 2007