There are so many things to say, each butterfly litters my awareness, distractions moulding themselves into the grain of passing time, and again, until all moments have become one, that single sphere of life in the past. Which is all very well, but things must be said if they are to avoid silence’s hollow reach into each and every nether corner (black stamps send blank letters along ghostly wires, mimicking the calls of dumb mimes with dumber intentions). So:
Here’s one. Neither greatest nor too petty. I.e. So:
Joanne, Joanne. What is our role in this dance; stepping on each other’s toes, wearing dresses and suits marred by the outlines of adolescent tears; tantrums of desire, bested by time. Question mark? I’ll ask it again, because all meaning descends into metaphor, imagery into syntax. These are not due to any artist’s reach. This is because there merely is too much of it. Life is merely complicated. Even a naive life, no matter its bombastic flares or reconsidered intermissions. (Once again, I am distracted by the message. Paper scraps and unfolded preludes and glossaries litter my “Out” tray, all directed by the fine handwriting of the sole post-master back into its partner “In”.) Reverse. Refresh. Reaction. Result?
What I want to need to know is what and why – sic; “sic ’em all I say”. But really. Truly and honestly. Without jest nor sense of humour, self-awareness, or realism’s terrific irony. Instead, with motive forces unchecked (unlabelled, unweighted, not even checked for ill-manner or drudgery or pride). And so, I hope and declare at once, with intentions coupled by intentions, suggesting that with all those words I might be ready to say something. Something; so important (a palace of intentions?)
I am concerned about my relationship with Joanne. Included in this concern, are her feelings for me – their nature and extent, quality and quantity measured in heartbeats and breaths – Oh! But behold the rapscallions attack, and the better response which is [liminal space]. Does she x me? Do I x her? (The obvious is noted; a word that lacks no meaning can have too many, nebulous or each threatening debts.) [Liminality. Op cit.] What is the weight of a dozen (a thousand, a million, or less) roses? Individually wrapped and unsent. Distractions abound – so I grasp one (finesse is unnecessary, at least here) and read each word as I see it. (Instinct says to ask my lawyer first, but I’m not sure I even trust him, so let’s leave that one to bygones.)
I don’t know how she can love me if she has done things to me I see are horrible (ANGER and HATE; but what?) In a similar vein (the blood here is a deep red) I ask if she respects me, if she cares about my cares, is interested by my interests, if I am justification enough. Point one.
Now, at this point, I can add plus one, be fruitful and multiply. But really what’s the point in that? At a certain point, it becomes a self-referral, as I point out each one in turn. So let me change tact. Let me seek this one’s question, which surely (surely!) must be a prerequisite to an answer. I could ask her, says doctor’s instinct. Or if that is too much. I exist too, (two), (imagination), (says), and all these words smashing through the panes, so silent and invisible (pairs) (entrapment) free (.) As these words attack, I must select and confirm to stand in admission (for even antagonists must be chosen somehow).
Distractions abound, riding fear. Focus might be this dagger’s scope. Each start is also a trail, and in some, I get lost beneath their tunnelling shadows. Can questions become illegal? Is there a point in collecting random recordings? And is there a danger by those prompted by the prompting? (Look and yell!!!) This is the hardest. And you must yell my name too. You/I. ARGHHHHHHHHHHH is my name, but I may call you Shai. And you must call yourself nothing. Lest we confuse. I do not want {x} given more, and nothing weighs down more than a name. So heavy. Such stains.
Each one. So let me try.
In the shadow of fate’s opportunities made chance, I find myself anew, wandering and wondering delirious with intent but lost faced with the multitude of routes. So alone and not a little ashamed, I sit between the boughs of this song’s intent, and listen, just listen. Because.
Do you ever imagine me fighting in some horror-war in some foreign place? Shooting the ugly and praising the dead. Do you see me scowl at the wounded who slow the platoon? Have you listened to the secrets that turn the living into mud shaped dirt kissed by heaven’s tears? Would you nod at my lies, because we know that heaven is death and god my secret name for absolving sins? And before I leave, you should hear the song you played me once. Because I did (twice – just in case). Not knowing all the secrets were sleeping. I woke them all.
And shot them dead. “Bang. Bang”, twice – just in case.
Because there are so many things to say. “And I fear the butterfly’s tornadoes,” begins my next lie.
When you hear the top award, to hear my name and call it your own, then maybe you’ll understand. But I’ve learned to tell a few promises, and none to myself. (Here: I always tell the end when it comes to the truth – I can cry, cried, crying, infinite tense cum never, and beauty’s promise has always tugged any cord that could ever make me feel. So come here, and right now. This moment and no other. Death is gone and life is forgotten. Lie with me because two can be alone in a universe of infinite grace and the birthplace of cruelty. Make (scenes of) love. Kiss. We can sleep without fear. And if we embrace before those dreamless planes… well… yes.)
And what does the journal read: I spent the night listening to your songs, weaving them into my feelings, a tapestry you have heard a thousand times but never mine. Never.
A seed’s beauty is known in potential’s shadow.
