The only thing I need from you now is some solitude.
“You” contains a sliding scale, or maybe “solitude”?
All = A desire to hide under, behind, around any solid
object in some heavy degree of silence. Simple. I should’ve
set aside a day for away-drunk; Vacation means what you
need & what you make, & here again I decided on rescue mission.
I spend 24 in collapse & sore fingers; a lack of technology can
handle the abuse I’ve chained for 20 years. Noon, & beer in one
hand, guilt in the other. As though one ounce of disappointment
requires complete commitment to the cause, as though carefully-
underswept failures don’t pile high enough to warrant quilt in lieu
of rug, as though matador-hued face operates as veil rather than
giving away, cemetery-style. The you-inspired sweater shields little
against Southern winds, but windows closed would fill this room
with smoke, whether from cigarettes or slowly-burning books &
blankets abandoned for boozed crazed ports further north. Yes,
the best minds of each generation drag themselves through the
streets – I stumble & stagger behind, offering palms up & cab rides
to warm Harlem bed, suggest the Westside for currents off
the water to clear whiskey & un-support of so many years of days
too long; The make-believe messiahs tail close, fashioning
angelhead halos from dime store pipecleaners, glancing up only
to spy out the route to successes of undergrounds too far for
before 3 P.M., but just fine for midnights & sweats thereafter ‘til
porters’ rattlings remind of keys & 2x4s to be demolished, pieced
into “art”; We button-fasten to bent necks, welded such by revelatory
tears of the not-so-supernatural; Break hearts to build spirits &
characters left to fall ((from peer hands)) by boards layered with
2 generations’ dirt; Line hardwood with plastic, jagged-kniving
greens tomatoes carrots radishes before high pressure shaking oil &
vinegar to coat walls ceilings salad with the jerks of undersweeping
wing, chewing through unthanking exits & undeniability of return when
ears tilt down to proposal, eyes stare any-away from curriculum vitae
stacked four pages deep. We’re the foster parents of the of-age-but-
irresponsible, of the ones lacking empathy ‘til 20 years ahead when they
go back & read the book, & all we ask is misrepresentation by them –
Freud to Nietzsche – so our way of life survives. A miscalculation:
something missing amidst the equation; the meal cannot be served if no
prepping occurs, & loyalty never managed a place-card – You = “They” =
unkindly truthed with little yellow tags, & he knew what he labeled in
“Stunned.” We’d never debase to request your excuse for love, tortured
semi-souls; we map & re-route & avenue way home, back down over just
AWAY 3 or 4 trains, out of mind for sake of capital-H Hope, or relief, clear
dialogue, trace of humanity. We ((the You vs. Us of it all)) may pray to
respective gods for mountained starry holy skies, but polarity dictates
destinations dwelling down superstrings – you be Schroedinger’s Cat, we
be the box, so sit side-by-side on a line, but know lyric spans the length of
the scroll & a hundred more anythings span the distance. Struggle to fight
instinct, pyromancy in setting suns, because it’s so impractical to waste
warm clothing in cities begging ((granted)) tundras; We continue,
cooperation, apparent obligings to installations lacking Standard. But
the I involved desires no more vinegar sponge, no lies of hydration –
Real backhands, busted lips, bruises over bruises aphrodisiac to no end;
Verbal substitutes shove off the 3 blocks to blindness. Porcelain & Roses,
no matter how concrete, don’t exist in that petal falls & corner chips
encourage bacterial growth, promote decay, & enough of my me is missing.