I’m scared of the luxury of time. Realizing how I’ve avoided it for so many years. How I’ve never seen it as a commodity to be spent, so busy have I been spending other things, alpha waves, bodies and baleful stares.
I’m smiling and scratching at my palms, imagining Shylock and Giotto, Wagner as miserable as the worst of his sins, Tom Waits, of course, sitting in an undershirt somewhere, pulling the wings from insects slowly dying, wondering how many bottles of Rye his piano can swallow and still keep playing out its sound.
I’m thinking about everyone in the world who’s ever worn a hardhat, ever been injured in industrial accidents, returned home severed to their families. I’m counting up my blessings, making strange gargoyle twitches with my lips, seeing if I can push my tongue through the flesh of my cheek (I can’t). Trying to remember what that little flap of skin that attaches the bottom of the tongue to the mouth is called. Feeling how sore it still is there, as though some episiotomy was self-administered by licking out into you; even though I can’t spell the word, I feel the stitches I never had, the little cut or stretching there.
I’m wondering why your clitoris is like my sense of humor, sometimes easy to take between the lips, sometimes disappeared from me. I want there to be secrets still, there must be, but I realize there are many things obscured which burn up energy and that most of those things are not secrets, just subjects unsaid, unacknowledged.
You know now of course that I have to say, be it sooner or later, that which comes to mind. That the saying is, eventually, the mark of us all. Where we stand and so much more accurately than pure geography. They are weightless once spoken, these ideas, remarks, only constricting, crushing, when left inside to gather themselves in silence. They’re indigestible and they eat, but only when swallowed.