We all do what we can
So we can do just one more thing
We can all be free
Maybe not in words
Maybe not with a look
But with your mind
There is a portion that yearns to unlearn, ravel away as the other builds up with the bricks and dirt of this firmament, wants to crash over the wailing veils that stream over the blacker waters and harder clay. When I'm drunk I look a little like Bukowski, red wine stained teeth and an out of vintage bottling shirt hugging tightly to my corpuscles. And I am disengaged and disingenuous, made failure and fallible by the sting in the look of griping grief shredding through the ears thrumming on the last verberation of a subtle oh. Maybe not in words, maybe not in television, the grey waves crackling on the blue fuzzed carpet where the cat slinks in a tawny vibration of light landing sideways so that we can do just one more thing. Old times on the nine listening to wood planks rippling from stem to stern and rolling, just going our way. It's all in our palindromes we recite on our bedsides, shuffling our thoughts in the small, old drawers we once kept all the children's dreams in, and those were the keys, the turning hasps like shutters squealing in the golden dawn-break storm of light-- that's how we all came out. Five kisses and a dollar bill go fluttering out the window like the stripes waving in the camisole, busy hands worrying stones away trying to comfort the burned-in nature of minds missing ideals. I've had time to weigh the judgments, to weigh the lightness of this thing called love and find it all folly, all folly. Entirely folly. I know that despite the contrast, despite being the dark other I am still governed by the child of light, this gestating firmament that burs the horizontal. I walk the stairs and try to remember the logic, tried to dispense with the polarity, but it is flux. I am completely adjective to it all. Pine and peal, there is no more to matter other than the pattern of indicative, the positive fragment of unhealth and sovereign reign I represent in foetal passing. Perhaps it’s inescapable that no one will see the footfalls or smoke-driven cascade of underestimates I've been privy to. Even now, I know the thoughts escape me, the myriad of knowing this. Knowing you. Not on paper. Not on any template, and I am grieved that I have lost it in two seconds time. I ask to some god that that Borges's own work asked, that but I had a year to form the coherent, the justification...
Not of myself this once. But of you all. I knew it then. That eternity in time while the clove was waiting to burn at my hair, that passable existenz I confused for a reality before the shot and lead and primer explosion that has carved my soul into cohesion beyond any portent you'd been wonting.
Forgiveness is more than futile, but you would never have known.