Revisions in Living

When the ideas about you come out, they intervene like a dog that doesn’t know which bowl to eat from, considering the options. Perhaps there are none. Perhaps all the animals can’t tell which valley to fall through, being watched by a hunter hidden between oaks, pines, or aspens so sparse and albino. They know there is the point of being hunted because that just means being alive, but one can only be sought after for so long.

When I spell out your name so anyone listening can write it down correctly, I see brown hair the length of years spent in some other life that I receive visions of hints from. The dogs still bark at night over your beauty when I am in a bed with you. Photographs taken by all the people I don’t know and will never meet convince me of the crispness in your body. I heard a drive-by hitman make his mark in the world while I considered the first night I will finally know your body.

When the intimacy I want finally sets in, there will be centuries of love to consider. Alexander is in a convulsion of epilepsy over a woman that told him she wouldn’t feel the fall of his sheets on her body. There is nothing to consider now and I can’t feel the fits in my drunken cells left out in the sun to dry among an Arizona heat that reminds me of your tongue filling up my mouth.

Self-consumed

I feel wrong for every time I’ve said I’d fallen in love. It seems to always have been desperation to have a female near me. Still, all the women who fell below my body are remembered differently. Some were a conquest. A simple means to feel bare and I’m sure now that they invited the challenge as well. Others were only a staggering advance in the wan light of convenience. The last increasingly minute and exclusive group were a true aspiration in which I saw us sliding through the sheets towards evocative futures dolled up in idealism. Regardless, it was an idealism I thought could occur.

Aside from all these, one in particular is included in none of these sects: a puerile girl who put on make-up too early. She is too far off in the past to drink herself away from it. She is too locked in the gaze of the mirror. She is too sealed in the public eye, because if she calmed, what storm would there be for the masses of erections to stare at? Her translucent jar keeps enough mystery to entrance, but not enough visibility to entertain. With this one, I cheated myself into trusting I was more than another begging erection. I could have loved her, but I’d have to share her with the mirror and I see all the faces.

I talk and receive similar stories in response: everyone fragmented from tumbling after the boulder, trying to convince Sisyphus to stop his trudging and enjoy the trees around him. He responds with a story of a woman who ran off with his best friend. He says that his boulder is his sanity. He says that his boulder is the same as us doing the dishes to keep our minds away from it. We all then shuffle backwards as he moves his weight out from behind it. The earth shakes as his boulder chases gravity again, because even the most pragmatic among us still make wishes when the clock speaks of doubled numbers.