The ugly opens wide. Showing its thick tongue. Curled like a slope up to heaven. That it sees with slits for eyes and is drawn to our weakness like a magnet. Attracted by its opposite. All we fear is everything that makes it strong.
Because weakness is our shield and our weapon against everything that is sharper. All those friends hewn hard. And the moments that bite. All aspects of life that demand from us more strength than we've been given.
I'd like to have stories to tell. As other lives do. Carve their memories into monuments. Boulders whittled down into shapes hearts can digest.
But my stories all run together in a capricious litany. Their faces all blur as the backdrop cycles. One endless hour that never remembers me.
This must be what addiction is. Unable. Unwilling to escape yourself.
And how close it cuts to those veins without spilling too much blood.
So alive in every instance of death it forces upon us.
This once was. And might've been changed. But now it will be. With or without my consent.
The ugly opened wide. Its heavy tongue between its fangs. Its wet lips drawn back from them.
And the weight of its hunger so fat on you.
This must be what addiction is. There in jaws about to bite and not compelled to move.
Monday
1/16/2006 10:57:00 PM
It's a hard thing, not to write for your audience, at their accessibility, at their horizon.
It's a hard thing to write instead on yours, for yours.
And, force them to rise up to the work.
To stand on their tip toes,
and strain to see what you can.
Without condescension,
without elusive imagery meant to impress,
you're far above.
I've just read your blog. I feel like I just strained, and rose, and looked directly into your horizon. What a journey.
I am completely blown away.
My God, you can write.
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