Whitman - @ Life Alive in Cambridge, MA.
He follows me e'ry where.
He follows me e'ry where.
We're only out there when the city is dead and the people smell of decay. Like euthanasia and diesel spilled among the streets of a winter substitute.
We've never existed among the populous of social casualties. We are the casualty; we are waiting to succumb to death and morbid fantasies of our own demise, wherein lies are commonalities. To the utmost respect, I play out such things as futures, and present tenses... We haven't revealed much, it simply has come to reveal itself. With little known reason, we question the unquestionable until we're sitting there, naked and breached, cold and ply'ed to the floorboards, gasping for air... Holding each other's chests in such dispositions that would cause alarm for the normalcy's to which we should learn to adjust. But that's just too complicated. We can't entertain contentedness, it's amusing to think of, but really - it's a lemon-world, and we're bound to swallow water until our lungs combust, deteriorated from yellowing rust, and yelling fuss. And we choose our choices, we sat there until the tears drained like leaking faucets. Elastic bands snapping upon our wrists from machines programmed to condition our pain. But we ignore it, we ignore it all. We continue on as if this thing is bigger than the both of us, we can't fight it, we don't believe we have anything to win. But didn't he once say, "What do I stand a chance of winning?" // "Everything." - And so it goes... Maybe nothing at all. Who has all that patience to wait around, to wait around just to see if they've lost. It's a fact, we only fight to win something, most of us end up losing. But even in those moments, the moments that tend to turn into hours and early morning cowards... Where you find yourself yelling down hallways at the one you actually love, the one that you wish never to speak unkind, but there you are, yelling at each other because one doesn't understand the other. And, why, of course they don't understand, it's a fight, they're the opponent, and isn't everyone only ever out for himself? I don't blame you... They never owned it.
And so maybe at that time, the time when the sun should be coming up, but it won't it's not its day to shine. Your mind is ready to explode, and your words begin to impose - I hate this, I hate this so much. But I only hate it because I love him. Because the fact is, we wouldn't be arguing, we wouldn't be tearing each other apart right now if neither party didn't have passion. We're so full of it, we're such liars, we're royal. I'm hiding from myself, and you're running with the flame, long distances, but it's obvious - your heart is too weak. The poetry from the walls is creaking, it's speaking in tongues and we're reading its hymns. From nothing other than chorus after chorus; our hearts unfold, and our eyelids relieve themselves onto fingertips, compassionate fingertips. Fickle minds, and unbreakable bodies - we're decaying before each other, but only because we choose to say everything that isn't actually relevant. The truth, the truth is I've I've been in love. I'm under no complete understanding of how this has occurred, or why, or where exactly did it happen. I remember the moments to everything, the seconds, and the colors and the foliage and the music. But this one I can't seem to explain, it came like the Northern Lights, and it's fleeting along with some sense of Southern Pride. My mouth is regurgitating carbon monoxide onto his neck, and I feel like if I could just puke up enough poetry, I could tell him how I really feel. Its all useless, he's too busy not having time. So I'll sit here in my defenses, in my violations and my shame. I'll try not to insist on who's the blame. I'll just swallow the words, and keep the lies for the verbal tresses. Disconnected.
The seconds you speak, and I take account of everything. Like an accountant on trial, I've learned to audit every single fucking thing. I recognized in the language, and in the past 24 hours, he used the word love three times. That's two more times than I've ever heard him use it before, no mind the contexts. He used it, and I know that for him, just the dialect no matter the dialogue in itself is like a hammer to knee caps. It's like dilated coal to shins, or rubbing alcohol to bloody wounds. This means nothing but I'll serve it as a sign of comfort, for I am a woman, and we read into everything.
This isn't my life, I thought as I crawled my naked, pale, bulging body into the claw foot tub of a complete strangers ownership. Beside Vonnegut and Lavender, Honey and Raspberries. I soaked in that thing for hours; for hours I forgot who I was, where I should be, and what I could be doing there. It was as if my life has collided into a tiny condo on the South side of the city. It's quiet here, and aside from the various emergency vehicles with their screaming sirens, you'd almost not realize it was the heart of the city. I'd forgotten where I was at a time, when the chapters started to unfold, and Vonnegut cramped my eyes on page 56. I forgot where he was, or what I was doing here, I hadn't stopped to think of who I really should have been thinking about, or what he may be doing. I was just curious, and feeling somewhere amidst the poetry of a story from long ago. The exposed brick, so contemporary, yet so fashioned. Nothing here can stay, and I know that. So, I hold on. I hold onto the sides of the tub with my prune-ish fingers and my sweating freckles. I keep cleaning the flat, as if I am worried he may return home and resent the traces of a stranger in his home. This is a home. -- Not an apartment, or a condo, or a dwelling, it is a home. A home to someone, but I'm not sure how he made it so. I don't understand those things, and up until now I hadn't been concerned to ask such questions. The only true curiosities I have had are the ones that lay beneath the floorboards, the ones that flicker among the candle wax, and dust and dirt cowardly fishing itself from the counter tops.
