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playwright /
Picture in my mailbox / - Subscribe
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We might be alike. You're not talking much. I'm full of life. Leaves are filling my mouth, so bitter, so gag-reflex. The moment before death, when everything becomes overwhelmingly vibrant, the catch just before the fall, the corrected misstep. That adrenaline rush, recreating the world, the transition from blurry instability to knowledge, to feeling, to names and shapes. I'm in it. Turning into something. And you. And you. You, you. Would you just. Will you please. I want to ask something of you, but it really must be you asking yourself, to... to. Let go. Yeah, sometimes, I can't speak. Sometimes I hide under blankets, letting myself suffocate, becoming warm with all the wishes I keep under there with me. But I throw them off, I write my fevers away, I carve them into memory, and they will, they will, they will disappear. I will burn them up of my own volition. I can't take yours away. It's a vague thing, this; it's difficult to see everything clearly while in transit. But hear me, please, hear this, through the noise of traffic and look past the dizzy display of lights, the stretching lines, just understand. There's a melody out in the world, just playing over and over, quiet and clandestine, but you can hear it underneath the racket of everyday, and it's beautiful. And I am in love. With the way the world ripens and blooms and bursts open, the velocity with which people will move, strangers becoming friends, friends, ohhhhhhhhhhh, everythinggggggg. How the yous change and blend. How the days just keep ending, again and again, on good notes, or, perhaps, bad notes, and no matter what happens, I can't keep from smiling. Wave goodbye. Make it a happy ending. Say hello, take my hand, let's go, let go. We'll never sleep, we'll never be alone. All that light inside, all that hope! It just beams. We all glow. Keep your eyes open! Get outside! Love. |
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playwright /
Who knows why / June 25, 2007; 8:15 PM - Subscribe
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They say, It must be a brilliant match; I think of striking the match and the immediate crackle of its lighting, the burst of light before it continues to burn. Is that us? I'd like to write poems and poems, I'd like to carve into my walls so many words that they run over each other and begin to blend together until it's just nonsense, so many sentences running together into a great illogical synthesis, and it will mean nothing, because it will mean everything at the same time, twenty-nine contradictions existing in perfect harmony, or disharmony, depending on how you will decide to read it. I think it's funny how you just fall short, by a mere number; just, just. It's another almost added to a list of almosts that stretches on forever into history. I'm falling off the edge. I'm moving toward a revolution, a great sequence of losses and gains. I'm headed toward the Sun, I'll burn up before I get there. I'll run out before I've run the whole way to the other side of the world. I'll run out of steam. But I will go, and it's the going that matters, that's really the point of the thing. Do you see? It doesn't matter. Everything has become forgettable. But I'm still teetering, here. Still waiting for an answer to escape your open lips, unexpected, filled with promise. |