by Brentley Frazer
Some open their wounds like windows, probably hoping to let the fresh air and the light in. Some are incapable of displaying more than an emotional vector, while others just bust their icons, throwing oblique references to physical deficiencies against rented walls in the early hours.
Your lips alone, before you open them, are a subliminal phenomena.
I know for certain when I see the first bloody tear forming that your agony, this time, will be worth preserving. As they part the watchers come down from the towers. That first great sob could have killed me…the animal within just wants to pounce and devour you. I know how you will taste closer to the truth than the pious blood of christ. I have seen the evidence in textbooks, researched the rumours heard in hotel lobbys and religious gatherings.
--Your pain is also this beautiful, they whisper: the universe needs your misery.
I showed a small crowd my pencil sketchs of you wailing in alleys and under some windows at the beach last summer.
The first thing I noticed was her bare feet, and the way she walked, like Tom Sawyer in his city clothes with no shoes to spite. But she, unlike him, while stepping on the pigeons, doesn’t bother to apologise.
I follow you among the famine tents of faith, and as I observe you kneeling I begin to believe that the distance between us is imagined and false. Chasing you, the sleep thinker, you who has seen things said to be concealed is no easy task. Weaving roses in the waveform as you wander wayward leaves even athletes short of breath; and that dance only you can do, leaves others with broken toes.
Last updated April 27, 2012