Free enough. Even if we're only free to falter. There are many women who will love a man simply because he loves her. But not many men willing to do the same. There are perpendiculars. The awkward angles of memory. Falling into their slots. Obscene jigsaws solving us. In percussions of flesh. And bits of underwear still to wash.
Some pale orchestra whispering loudly senile symphonys. Too forgoetful to name why it still hurts. Too medicated to prove anything is real. A braid in her hair. Long, narrow and reticent. The spice of dying in every meal we share. Dirty trenchcoats cloak the detective. As he wanders the miles between the clues. Performing his deductions in heavy breaths. Doing his arithmetic with trembling legs.
Waiting for the murder to be ready. Waiting on the victim to lean into. The soft leather jackets that separate criminals from artists.
Wednesday
7/25/2007 12:20:00 AM
Sad Labels:
love
,
philosophy
,
retrospect
,
sex
"There are perpendiculars. The awkward angles of memory. Falling into their slots. Obscene jigsaws solving us."
Now that is a powerful image.
There is so much strength in your writing sometimes, that it makes me weak.
well thanks.
other people see in it more than i ever get the pleasure to know.
how're you doing?
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