Thursday, April 2, 2009

something to loop

"to wound the autumnal city . . .
so rare in this age, no wind."
          - Samuel R. Delany

there is something to the night in beat down cities. the desolate creep along its main drags, i lowlife-ness to the clusters of night people- all of us looking for something, many of us finding nothing.

i found this- gray sedan, late model - maybe a chrysler, perhaps a dodge. the fronts of the modern, slumping front nose, sleek in the target way. heavy design, iffy quality. 

she gets out, her jacket not nearly warm enough, his face obscured by the tint. she walks, every several steps a look back. its as if she is still not sure the transaction happened, perhaps she dreamt it all after a late night drag-out with the man. he was there once, and now the remnants of him coming and going live amongst her. possessions from a war she did not declare. she wished to love him. she wished it to be as she always imagined love as a child. you meet a man, he is good, some bad- you love him in-spite of himself, and he manages to love you just enough, and you live.  you live, and you take his frustration along the sides of your face, his constant picking. that mouth that once whisper along the nape of your neck -"i love you" - late night, out of the blue, picked from a deep sleep.

i watch her walk. i imbue the walk with story, i lick the night for stories. 

this is not her, she went to a party some years ago, she tried the heavy bathroom drugs. she was a booze hound as a teen, a little pot, some pills. she took the play along the mirror, and it changed her gaze. IT. this monkey was euphoria, and it claimed the in between times, touched at the fabric of a coping. held on.

it was a grey sudan, late model- a chrysler, perhaps a dodge. the tint was a perfect obscuring. yeah- his face melded into a thousand johns. she clutched her 20 in the clammy fist, looking back, as she wiped her junky nose with the spring jacket sleeve.


i come back into my home, it is warm. the trickle of the tank filter flutters ambient. my babies are floating in pairs, the plant vibrate as if shown in spotlight. i shudder to think of what these nights bring for others. for me, it is the chance to witness, and come home again. pull my blue felt blanket to my nose, write this
looking back.

No comments: