Or did I approach her? undead, their clamminess and curling fingers. She
I found her there in the vestibule, steps, stones,
a stage made of glass, her own
place,
a kind of crying, because
did she cry, when I found her
there? I asked her questions she refused to answer, not dilapidating in
themselves but dissipating on
sound. It wasn’t that she couldn’t speak, or that she wouldn’t, but we were too good at making silent connections, the personal kind, she and her changing faces, her starry skies.
Truly, I wish
she was there for me, but it’s
not as though I couldn’t tell my own story (or would?…); the dreams nailed into me and whole families of thought denied themselves to me. I’ve never been a realist, despite believing in the real,
and I’ve never been religious, despite believing in false
Gods.
:::::::::::::::::::: I thought of telling her things, but that would only feed the complication. Monsters surrounded us, if I were to make more statements of place. Our complication defined us, our lack of a center. Feed me
MORE, FEED ME
but we weren’t part of that, or I don’t think we were. If there were even a choice to be made, between things and other things, reclusive. Fragmentary thought abounds me. Revolution precludes self-awareness:
OUR
…our world isn’t a place for fishermen anymore. The smell of gills disgusts me.
…if this weren’t real, I would tell myself
to focus more on the true,
because irony
has more fangs
than an old, rabid
dog.
…All things move inevitably toward the center (period)
::::::::::::::::::::
"I had a dream about you," I said, "if you’d believe me, and if that doesn’t creep you out." Though the more I thought about it the more I didn’t believe myself, the more frightened I was. Nameless, playing games, making jokes in a smoky bar where not even the grizzled, fantastically drunk man in the far corner found himself inclined to crude humor. If there I was, truncating. I could abbreviate myself. Punctuate. I really could.
She turned. Already she’d said hello to me. Greeting. Hey. I’ve never seen you before. What else is there to say? "What would that make you?" (she said.) "A dreamer?" To be struck by irony, a game in itself.
"I’m not sure," I said, "but I do dream."
"Could you see the future for me?"
"I could paint a picture of the past, maybe."
Can you paint?
Maybe.
"What are you doing here?" She turned back to the window. "Or what’s up, if
you feel like I’m infringing on territory, or undermining law."
"Maybe I came here to find you."
(I didn’t.)
"Though maybe just to chase the boredom away." I looked back for a moment,
to where the air carried traces of electricity. "I wouldn’t say I don’t like dancing," I said, "but I wouldn’t say I like it either, if that makes sense."
"It does."
"People say strange things about you," I said.
"They do." (no question)
"Should I believe them?"
"Maybe you should."
"It seems
like wherever I go, you’re there." I took a step towards her. "And it seems like wherever I’ve been, you’ve been there
too."
She shrugged, or the night shrugged for her. Periwinkle clouds were unlit in the darkness. Cool rain berated us. The moon showered her in pools of sinuous light. I’d never seen a girl more beautiful, though it wasn’t as though I had a right to judgment, not taking myself into consideration, that hollowness that was me, mind, sight, hearing, to channel the city and pass it through. I wish we could say we were alone on a balcony, but the vestibule contained me, there with too many corners, a stifling limit to space.
"If you believe the stories about me," she said, "maybe they’re true."
"Are they really stories?"
"Depending on if you understand language."
"Do
you feel like dancing?" I asked. "If it was with you,
I would care to dance."
"Not really," she said, "or not now. I like it better in the moonlight."
Connection devoured us, if that was what you wanted to call it.
::::::::::::::::::::
My friend wanted me to go to a party. I went without caring what I wrote. Inside the lights were green blue red purple orange pink flaring. I wasn’t late enough for vomit to be involved. Maybe it was a dance, which would explain why so many people were dancing. Somebody passed me a drink. Somebody threw me a gesture. Wherever I was.
Parties are not a good place to meet people. We were all strangers here. I met her in the vest
ibule, which implies more things than one
(clavicle, cubicle, silvery dress the darkness
glint- none of those things) for whatever reason I did. But now I’m just repeating myself. Fuck time and place.
When it was with her, you didn’t need them anymore.
::::::::::::::::::::
"Do you want to dance?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said, "yeah, I think I do, but I don’t think I want to leave."
We danced
if that was what you wanted to call it. Turbulent winds encircled us, and sense of shrouding,
not necessarily that which is known. To spin, we spun on axis. Her dress (she
was
wearing a dress) bared her shoulders to me, her slimness, a sense
of litheness and ebony clouds.
The rain
was pounding, a song kept playing and though we couldn’t feel it the wind kept blowing. Omnipotence embraced us, we were everywhere
and we were really there.
She was a beam of light capturing the moon, she was
a vicious intensity of sensation.
I danced with her in the moonlight.
With every breath
she was
beautiful.
Are you here alone? I asked.
Promise me
you won’t tell me your name.
I promise.
That’s not enough sometimes, just to promise. It’s okay, I’ve
forgotten
already. I’ve forgotten for you, just
to show
I care, in case you didn’t believe. Are you here
alone?
"Maybe I am," she said. "No, no I don’t think so." "Is it me?" I asked. "You don’t want me here?"
"No," she said, "if you want, you can stay." Hello (if
you greet me that
way, coming
from your lips,
it makes
me never
want
to
leave)
She smiled, and she embraced me.