Words from Some Other.

And It Came to Pass
by C. D. Wright
This june 3 would be different Time to draw lines I've grown into the family pores and the bronchitis Even up east I get by saying goddamnit Who was that masked man I left for dead in the shadow of mt. shadow Who crumbles there Not touching anything but satin and dandelions Not laid his eyes on the likes of you Because the unconnected life is not worth living Thorntrees overtake the spot Hands appear to push back pain Because no poet's death Can be the sole author of another poet's life What will my new instrument be Just this water glass this untunable spoon Something else is out there goddamnit And I want to hear it

a repetitious knot.

It was the ninth, I didn't dream. Instead I determined the date and further, this time I have lived by or, more sensationally, been locked into has been a series of goodbyes. Upon exiting I discard the feeling, which is to say I disassociate from myself.

I sense a heaviness; writing with the light pushing down.
In so few hours, she'll have the morning, but not the motivation to ask anything I can answer, agree upon:

How'd you sleep?
Didn't.
What's wrong?
It's becoming later all the time.
Next time tell me. I'll give you something to take.
I want someone to have.
There is so little difference.
To you. But for me, all I hear in the night's silence is the difference and after, its impossible repetition.
Well, sorry your night sucked. But time to get moving. We've got a party to put on.

Perhaps I am waking, as if at birth, to isolation, its noise (this, all:in myself). Then again, there is the fear that my honesty is harmful, that this is possibly about one thought determining, distracting, deluding all others: What is difficult about being in love, to me, is being in it.

In La Pointe Corte, Agnes Varda has 'him' say to 'her':

The first one who's had enough should leave...if their heart says so.
The heart never tells us that. The heart never gets enough. It's the mind that rebels or the body.

And then she tells him at last,

I came to make noise and silence has won.

At the party, I didn't want to make a speech, but when push came to shove I had to go on and do it. So I said, I'll sure try to be short and sweet. What I figured is my indifference instead was interpreted as personalization, and more embarrassing as emotion. Was this the truth? I apologized. Blamed my inconvenient nostalgia, said it is a shame. Why? Can't I be more careful, more comforting. Reach for interaction, don't let the city pull you, promise not to loose the adrenaline, but goddamnit slow down. I spoke with one man for the majority of the time. Knew it was easier being myself, than pretending Manhattan and undergraduate is a place I met people, found love. A father interrupted, So now that you have graduated you are fully pursuing modeling? What, no, I am leaving to write. But then, he brought up film and I asked him what his eldest daughter made him watch. (I despise such questions, or rather being put on the spot, but I also despise being taken for a face over my word. He brought up Bergman and call me crazy but I instantly felt safer, acknowledged accurately). See, my humility from not having done/experienced more - being greater - is why I mate in corners, divulge the panic of ambitions, lean forward curious about larger schemes. Once I resumed my conversation, last night some how found its way out of my mouth. Me and all my dreamlessness. I explained the interpretation of my last five years: the ever-evolving goodbye. It would have been hypocritical had I been defensive when he said, You are running away or are you? As if I could finally just break my seal, allow my strength to go collapsing. And I did in ways; in ways that men discover are attractive, as if they too can be listened to. I spoke about love, asked him about his own. What is the lesson in long-distance? He wanted to know how we met - and really, why the hell he wasn't around - said he, himself, sees where the interest comes from. The power of a couple, he made me think, is the fanatic self-other interest, the collapsing of a room, when the outside others are tone and the selves are musicality, an urge, a talent to honor. And this was invigorating. For whatever reason we hugged and said we enjoyed how quickly the party went by. His wife was on a book signing. She had finally come to the point of applause, of readership, of respect. But he hadn't wanted to tell me because 'why compare two stories so to speak'. I really didn't know where to go after that.

toes to tongue

Originally uploaded by Lillyan Lilac

discovered, he woke. that wasn't she, testing her tongue toward me. but a bird baiting me on.