I would have sworn I was already gone when I heard you talking
I heard you admit your bed never offered any sleep but walking.
I had already bled out, saw my wounds begin to close
And never longed to find you among the hospital rows
I went back in the track and saw the beginning again
January and February, was the number five or worn thin?
Spring sprung and I can’t find the fall again among the fever and the silences that fell. Maybe that made things a little different than they were, maybe it’s enough difference for you but it might be it’s only me. It was the time of trials & the trials of time, I met the keeper who danced through the long passageway of stone that led up, down & out to the lighthouse. He said, “Everything around here is always under the moon.” There was an innocent man and woman but one lived life in another’s eyes. I never thought it could be so vivid but it smelled like a disaster when I saw you in the street, sweat collecting at my feet and there was a shaking in the hands and tightness in the womb, words meant always to be clear and true and the arrow flies alone. Standing on the sidewalk at Leadville Avenue I hear the pounding of sand, unplanned motion, the slipping scales of gratitude, it was commerce of emotion and I was destroyed when I recognized the mercenaries hidden in the speech, broken plaques on the beach & the line where tangible meets memory.
That impression in the gelatin of mind, a photographic negative to record the flavor of the air, the shape of her hair and another anything everywhere. I am the flood and she is the flower, the doorway in the cathedral, the collapse of lovers in the tower, the price of purification, the crucible. miles of thorns and twenty seasons of captive pain. Angelina is somehow permanently escaping, her beauty is thin and transient and her only fear or asset. Money is it’s own curse, She called sin “art” and excused herself again, said this didn’t want no part, she couldn’t win but was at the center of the battling twins in Greece, the sacred whole & profane piece, the burning museum and collectible bone, like right and left hands never pushing the same stone, and that same old water for change. The agony of creation, bioelectrical fuel for the prodigy of art, the craft, love, life and God and nothing can intervene and nothing can even be seen outside of that philosophy. Geology for those stones of mind and sprit too heavy for anyone to lift when life goes on with no one near it and one must embrace his redundancy to smother his vanity. To understand that only things that are valueless are free. To be unfettered and directionless, windblown and unknown, to be absolutely null & neutral and a receptacle for the spirit & the muse. To be no longer born to trouble, no longer born of joy, borne by nothing not as vacuum or as might be perceived as oblivion, born to life breathed on as the blank page and no lines to follow that are already drawn.
The headboard, the eye of God, what must be said or left unsaid is no longer mine to find or turn about, there is nothing left to figure out, good morning, blue morning, no courtesy or warning, growing hum and rolling in the canyon until one rock wall stands with no companion and the cliffs ache. Lost and found, relic marked green and distressed from the fall. The lights in the sky at night find themselves outshined, approaching headlights, the diner and the thief, time passing slowly in the hallways. The chase, the place where I waited under the one bad light and knew you wouldn’t read the Repercussion Blues if I wrote them. Hope is corrupt, someone stood up and yelled that the natural religion is bankrupt, a promissory note written on rice paper in the rain, but when the clouds clear resolves to be without hope can’t dissolve, can’t be abandoned by anybody who needs anyone but a martyr for solitude.
The precious angel, the loving warmth that protects, she comes in low through the window in the blue light and says “You can have love or you can be in love, you can even know the truth but you have to be willing to lose it.” The saving angel, when the voice of reason hangs like a plum and speaks before the silence can settle and has love and polishes it like a glass heart, that clairvoyant bird that hides in the air up above and can never be captured in the lair of self-love. There was accuracy in the forms when they poured the foundation of the lighthouse, the lighthouse and the security of the stone before it cleaved and was pushed aside. The keeper said, “I never desired any security. I wanted to keep the edge of sweat and heat next to me.” He said “Don’t you know what it’s like have something like this that you know you can never touch?” I’ve been already though all of that and never thought about it all that much. Such love is never killed, never turns up dead, never smothers or explodes, every love like that lives on, sick love, love that needs and feeds and does not grow it swells until, unsatiated, it’s message is passed across the Locke, and to be escaped it must be driven out at night and abandoned in the wilds, in the space between, to wait neither burned up or extinguished, but to forever smolder anaerobically.
The edges of perspective where one man stands on the tracks in possession of the facts with nowhere else to turn but back to the face of the giant and the conspiracy of the sky where they gathered in the square, each tied the harvests to his mare, left them to die in the usual way and then showed his pistol to the day. Light bright and well defined, the borders of perception where no one needs to see to reason. Somebody must have valued the exclusivity of the sign, the mark on the hand & behind the ear. They filled the dusty old fairgrounds with lots of nothing, sweat matting the grass and the oak tree where they stretched a line across the street and everybody turned left. I read in the graffiti that the rose of Jericho came with the dawn and brought an instant understanding of self, a fleeting and frightening and haunting awareness, an absolute and complete consciousness where I found that treasure only remains when unseen.
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