More Notes 12.11

November 16, 2011

BON IVER or THE BULGING EYES | There’s a bitch that lives near Akropoli. Two years pass and she thrives still as her houndsight declines. The fog that clouds her globes seems painted on as thick as a fired glaze when I see her. She whines, chuffing and smiling at the baguette I am sure to give to her. I play with her ears and can’t look her in the eye, cooing instead to her about snow globes and wish her a fine winter. Tomorrow I depart for the dark side of the earth.

NOT SO BAD AS SUFFERING GOES | The airbus captain is bleating about Scotland and my self-education in Klassische Musik on Kanal 4 – was that haunting song just now Debussy, Vivaldi or Beethoven? Did the Shangri-La’s sample it in ‘The Past, Present, Future’? – is interrupted by his sawing speech in three languages. He sounds distracted, like a man bored with an engagement but unable to stop explaining just how dull it is. My ears bleed as I become a ticking Alice fallen down a manhole of metal grates and now the things I considered important are becoming tinier in the distance.

MIRROR | A blonde German stands, flicking the long wolf mane out of his eyes. Pride becomes profanity when he turns to the overhead compartment. In his palm-sized bald spot I can read my reflection like text and it spells cold death.

SPANISH WINE | You handed me words like ‘jammy’ so I handed you a bottle.

THE EMERALD CITY | Our dreams have wisps of smoke escaping them as in a volcanic rock; some even give off the scent of sulfur. How long will you be your own wife?


I don’t want to know, I think.

Then a boy with the gift of conversation pulls it hand over hand from my lips:
I’m not love.

A day after, fallen spell to ouzo and wind, wet hair and menstruation, the thought slithers up through the cracks in my brain:
You’re not my home.

Who can push away a gust of wind? What fool denies a tidal wave it stands in the shadow of? Any man with even thinnest faculty can’t deny fire as his skin pops in the flames devouring the stake.

We are never born impregnated with children but little winged seeds are sown inside us from thousands of years ago, hundreds, decades, months, today, right now.


“No, I can never regret. I can feel sorrow,” the Unicorn offered, “but it’s not the same thing.”

I remember flashing glinting blades. I recall torn muscle. I can hear the bowing of wood and the violent snapping. I recall obligations when they were wrong. I remember the work when it was right but I especially remember how it didn’t feel any less callous. The glory of duty was in a spirit or a mind, never in the flesh. But weren’t they bound? It was a mortal time when we knew how to feel properly and our gods loved us or didn’t, but it was not a joke. It was not cute. There was no metaphor. I remember whispers and feather light touches on my temples, smoothings of my brow, the love of a god. I remember the jubilation of piety.


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