Hell for your heart is when a hero dies. Not expires, but disappoints. The person goes on living but the concept is no more. The power goes out in your soul forever, it seems. And then there are those moments afterward when you try and revive her, try and attribute that last broken camel-back event as a surreal dream. An old woman frantically climbing stairs, dirty rosary beads draped over one arthritic claw of a hand. Her elephant skin slung around bones, holier than the blood itself. But you know. It's just you now. Alone.
And I've watched from a distance, seen you thrive in your environment, seen you make your surroundings one with yourself. I've tried to work that into my own persona, but the variables have changed. I question myself, you are completely confident, completely happy. You aren't loud about it, your song is quiet, but saturated with relevance and art. Every fiber struck gold in your manufacture. Your golden flow just makes me emphasize my own flaws.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
My Newfoundland
The whole town is chasing December and impatience is on the sweatshirt strings of all so anxious to shed them for winter coats. I am heavy with the task of producing my own caffeine for the day and don't notice much else. Where's the snow? Where are the goosebumps as I undress. That trembling I've grown into? Where's waking up to my father making breakfast to Pat Metheny on Saturday morning while the roads are being cleared? It's been post-poned and we have nothing but sticky humidity to stew in.
I thought about him while shaving my legs in the shower, drizzling conditioner over my legs like gasoline on dry logs. I thought about him and his pout when I joked to him about his hairless chest. It was a soft spot, like his solar plexus was to his heart. He made music sound more triumphant and sunlight sweeter and calculus tolerable without even being there. He was the ray of heat in the microwave defrosting my cold stares.
My heart fluttered out of my chest, through my esophagus, and into the foggy world. I saw him as I rounded Lap 4, chest heaving 7 feet out/7 feet in, mucus in my lungs, anvils strapped to my knees. I took his grin into consideration and 2 more laps wasn't so bad. Wouldn't you know, I was finished 10 seconds sooner that last week. That's one thing to be happy about.
One of many, I'm finding out every day. Which is totally ruining my arrogant, unsympathetic teenager look by the way. I find myself speaking more than when spoken to, smiling at strangers in the dog park, so frequently that I didn't notice Henry getting frisky with a 200 pound Newfoundland. Dream big, I guess.
He was my Newfoundland. Just... not as heavy.
I thought about him while shaving my legs in the shower, drizzling conditioner over my legs like gasoline on dry logs. I thought about him and his pout when I joked to him about his hairless chest. It was a soft spot, like his solar plexus was to his heart. He made music sound more triumphant and sunlight sweeter and calculus tolerable without even being there. He was the ray of heat in the microwave defrosting my cold stares.
My heart fluttered out of my chest, through my esophagus, and into the foggy world. I saw him as I rounded Lap 4, chest heaving 7 feet out/7 feet in, mucus in my lungs, anvils strapped to my knees. I took his grin into consideration and 2 more laps wasn't so bad. Wouldn't you know, I was finished 10 seconds sooner that last week. That's one thing to be happy about.
One of many, I'm finding out every day. Which is totally ruining my arrogant, unsympathetic teenager look by the way. I find myself speaking more than when spoken to, smiling at strangers in the dog park, so frequently that I didn't notice Henry getting frisky with a 200 pound Newfoundland. Dream big, I guess.
He was my Newfoundland. Just... not as heavy.
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