Friday, November 18, 2011
Turned up radio, tires slipping over wet asphalt. heart slipping on ice. Two days of rain. tomorrow they say ..."sunny and clear "
blue skies over gray. a long wait for someone special. the wait for snow. I'll take that.
There are two roads since she's gone. this way and that. up and down. I notice nothing of red lights. all green lights from here to the east. I've gone north and south. dizzy with the thought of drink on my tongue. I'm healthy again. A good sign she still thinks of me.
I thought of a cabin in the woods or seaside shanty , a house boat , a sail boat. then back to mountains. chopping wood, growing a beard. building a fire. books stacked to a ceiling made of cedar. writing is isolation. a desolate place. its like being dragged to the bottom of a pool except your able to hold your breath- endlessly. you can look up and see the sun refracted through the water. you should be drowning but instead you're in the silence. i can hear my blood. my heart beats in a pattern. everything frequency and patterns and nothing lasts forever, not the memories tattooed into my skin, not even me writing it down for you to read someday.
A song without words. miles of rain slicked highway. accelerate. stay alert. oncoming high-beams become hundreds of tiny moons. the only sound the tapping of keys. some impossible way to get you to notice me, but I must be dead for there is nothing but blue snow and the furious silence of a howling wolf.