Monday 2/19/2007 11:29:00 PM

Her book was on the kitchen table. Patiently waiting to be read. The weight of too many winters pulling the curls from her hair. Ambient eulogies in shudders of cardboard. The ambivalent anarchy that is hopelessness.

The messages waited impatiently as she traced her footsteps. From the doorway to the chair. From salvation to surrender. The stoic algebra that is sanity turning wide eyes into calculators.

Her book was on the table, but her eyes were on the stove. As it counted down the seconds untl the pie was done. The apples all in an uproar. The crust mad with indignation. As she scorned their warmth in favor of the cold out there.

The nothing turns like a screw through this cork. Not opening this bottle to the world. But allowing the world to drain it.

Or else it was always empty. And now it's so certain. Inoperable cancers tell their stories in squeaks and dribbles. Our attempts to live. Incurable diseases. Draw the outlines for our portraits.

And we are all artists. immortal because we know why. Or once knew. Why we're still alive.

The coma close enough to marry.

3 comments:
Prick said...

Being in love with someone's words or art doesn't translate to loving the person who made them. True. I'll give you that.

But is not true that the art in an artist that is true, is the artist themselves. Making the art, the artist, and the artist, an art form.

Those words will remain words unless you, the artist, give those words their form, function, breath, and essentially, life. Those words are you, you are those words.

Unless of course you can prove to me, that you are detached from your words. That will make me eat my words.

So to tell you that I am in love with your words, can eventuate to me saying I am in love with you. But look carefully, I said 'in love with you' not your words.

Do I mean it? For real? Or am I just messing with you? You will never know.

RuKsaK said...

one of your best yet this one. measured but with metaphorical sparks flying. why do i always get the sense when i read your stuff that i've just witnessed a miraculously stunning firework display and then realised it was only me watching it? that makes no sense at all - i'll come back when i'm feeling more lucid and comment further.

alcoholic poet said...

prick: the words i shape are only from a very small part of me. not nearly enough to quantify the whole. so if you were in love with me because of them, it'd amount to no more than a fingernail clipping.

anyhow, i think you're just being weird for the sake of it.

ruk: i don't know what to say. it's good to know you enjoy this enough to keep coming back.



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