it's february and i still don't have anything for him. what to do what to do.
a body made of paper.
(some days with difficulty breathing...like two wispy see-through planes, gently colliding with each other, as the recycledpaperlike lungtissue catches, and goes on. the finite heaving of the organic, inside the smallest world. inside their smallest words.)
i spend time crinkled with concern, about diabetes. and thinking i'm missing new york. standing still for seven moments, still in dark coats crying, a huddled unit of four people who swear at each other and love each other, so much so much.
i wish i knew how my sister is, where she was and the things orbiting within her sphere of concern. feeling like. a kitchen maid, an ordinary cook.
my hands healed completely. trying now, to remember if mom told me grandpa sold his wurlitzer, or i just dreamed that. i can't see why...but i have distinct imprints in my brain about not wanting to play out loud, if she wasn't there anymore. but i can't tell how much i make up.
/
another typical and recurring complaint: when you interact with someone, how you're not even each other; you each make up illusions in your head about what the other is, and the relationship might as well be holograms manipulated, frail and ready to leave or dissolve at any moment...it only lasts as long as you can maintain your...as long as your desire to believe in what you know is an illusion overcomes your better judgment or your pragmatism. (but those aren't synonymous terms, of course. of course.) it's like the silly speak, of how we all have our own culture, our own language. and translation's constant; so many misunderstandings both known where control lets go (often for the sake of fatigue, relenting) and unaware. it's like people in their own spheres occasionally bumping into foreign objects not quite in their own universe. but you still are...and if anything, getting close to someone just reminds you how you're just barely touching, how you can never get too far.
sometimes. other days, i throw chapbooks out the window and eat ice cream outside and allow a little room for happiness.
(it's a strange little battle.)
/
(there was something here, but i cut it away like replicated dolls.)
(some days with difficulty breathing...like two wispy see-through planes, gently colliding with each other, as the recycledpaperlike lungtissue catches, and goes on. the finite heaving of the organic, inside the smallest world. inside their smallest words.)
i spend time crinkled with concern, about diabetes. and thinking i'm missing new york. standing still for seven moments, still in dark coats crying, a huddled unit of four people who swear at each other and love each other, so much so much.
i wish i knew how my sister is, where she was and the things orbiting within her sphere of concern. feeling like. a kitchen maid, an ordinary cook.
my hands healed completely. trying now, to remember if mom told me grandpa sold his wurlitzer, or i just dreamed that. i can't see why...but i have distinct imprints in my brain about not wanting to play out loud, if she wasn't there anymore. but i can't tell how much i make up.
/
another typical and recurring complaint: when you interact with someone, how you're not even each other; you each make up illusions in your head about what the other is, and the relationship might as well be holograms manipulated, frail and ready to leave or dissolve at any moment...it only lasts as long as you can maintain your...as long as your desire to believe in what you know is an illusion overcomes your better judgment or your pragmatism. (but those aren't synonymous terms, of course. of course.) it's like the silly speak, of how we all have our own culture, our own language. and translation's constant; so many misunderstandings both known where control lets go (often for the sake of fatigue, relenting) and unaware. it's like people in their own spheres occasionally bumping into foreign objects not quite in their own universe. but you still are...and if anything, getting close to someone just reminds you how you're just barely touching, how you can never get too far.
sometimes. other days, i throw chapbooks out the window and eat ice cream outside and allow a little room for happiness.
(it's a strange little battle.)
/
(there was something here, but i cut it away like replicated dolls.)