2 posts from September 2009

The Tragedy of You and I

Intro: His name does not matter. It should not. We will wrap all of our secrets up in metaphors and let them steep. Our story follows.

I can't say when I met you. Not because I do not want to, but because the truth evades me. I do remember. It was a colorful and plutonic rendezvous at a local restaurant--the type that sits on every city block. I found you perched in a booth sitting behind your menu--only your eyes present at my arrival as some ridiculous caricature of yourself. It would be ages before you inked me onto your sheets and, at the time, you had promised yourself you would not write me out on the linen. Such things are historical and others' the poetry that destroyed it. 

The plan was not to meet me. Not to be enchanted by me. Not to use me. It all came too soon and too fast to be avoided. We whispered our declarations in slow, steady streams. They didn't mean much, but they sure were something. You let me in.

I remember you. Behind the steam of simmering pots and pans, there was a smile. A joint pressed between your lips, your feet danced to the music you intended to spread onto me in rich thick strokes. In rueful obliteration I lie on the couch eyeing your careful movements; between the dinner mist and the drug haze I knew today would be the day I would seduce you.

One thought after another, clearly just a muse for me, I wrote you on my sheets and then into my sheets. You hardly resisted. Well aware of the threat, we allowed the tryst to continue. We snaked around our own beds and whispered even completely alone. Some things break on impact; you were one of them. 

Some days I would lie in wait for weeks. The sun turned over on itself and I exhaled rich, thick smoke. I dreamed you lying on your back in blissful resolution excusing the woman that kept your dick warm from the bed you refused to share. She, unknowingly, fell victim same as the rest, but with little resistance. I would, later, discover she was yours first and you, you were hers.

Things like this did not matter. They were trivial and our desires we could mask. Adventures would follow. 

We speed down the road behind your place not bothering to stop at the drive that is yours--hugging the curves and pressed tight to the door and the sidewalk;
"You are driving in the bike lane, dear."

I remember one night up on a mountain top overlooking the entire city in every direction, surrounded by transients and lurking voyeurs, legs spread to the stars and the cool winter gale flew up my skirt, nearly covering my face.
Back pinned to a rock in the sort of ecstasy that mimics the moments we imagine to be exactly perfect;
the moment exactly before we remember mundane articles that bring us back to the here and now--
the wet laundry left to mildew in the washing machine
or 
having forgotten to pay the car insurance the other day when it was due. I watch you rise up like a sunset between my legs, licking your lips and fingers and whispering sweet words to me that perhaps I'll not ever hear again (the drugs are quicker than we remember and we say more than we intend, but, in fact, far less than we mean to--we will never say more).

The rough smoke exhale exitting my lips tastes better midorgasm.

"The planes make grids in tha air, you know. Have you ever watched them? They supervise the city. You have to do that with a city the size of Phoenix."
We are not safe.

In the car and driving around the neighborhood waiting for the house to clear up and our captors to disappear to their responsibilities so we can sleep late into the day seeking the clarity left somewhere in the closet in the back of the hall next to old board games and photo albums of prior life long loves--the reflections of pack animals lying on their backs forgetting the misdemeanors and heartbreaks of the past addressing remade mistakes askew in positions not recommended by the surgeon general in any form or condition thereof.

We will slip in, unannounced, finding ourselves almost immediately under-dressed fucking up the stairway and around the corner to the room that made me remember that I am, in fact, more alive than I once anticipated. Sleep seeped in until the startled day succumbed.

We sneak out -- disguise ourselves. Dance under the stars until the darkness bleeds into the late night. Speeding freely down the interstate, our destination is northward; we prolong our minutes with thick smoke. There is not a light for miles. Often, the speed limit is ignored and exceeded. We entertain ourselves with backlit pipedreams
as the city disappears in the distance. I entertain you with my lips. I see unnatural colors in the sky. The clouds settle in uneasy patterns.The fog over the mountains alarms me. Living in Phoenix, the very thought of fog is mystifying and unnerving. The sky moves and the drugs have reached my brain- I can see the curve of the earth. My lips tingle
and I can feel the buzz of the blood under my skin.
The road slows--where cacti meet conifer--and the temperature suddenly drops 
20-or so degrees. Mind frenzied, I forget where I am and lose track of time. The buzz of the tires on the road keeps me grounded. We arrive more or less clothed than when we started. The hotel was the only vacant--some weekend, small town festival was to follow. There were unexpected oddities, but the clerk held his tongue. We got in for cheap and examined our new surroundings. Nothing worked. When the drug haze cleared we would discover that none of the electronics, oddly enough, were plugged in.

We slide into our surroundings, uneasily shake off the dizziness and drive. We pretend, with two beds present, we won't share one. Lips move faster than words and our clothes fall off in petals. Camouflaged by the street light bleeding through the crack in the shades, we slip under linens and speak to dead poets. Proclamations are not our poisons, but affirmations, oh, they do the trick. Closed lip kisses tell secrets I care not to mention.

Its Saturday and work thinks I have cholera. I chose the symptoms carefully, even give it a name, but the only outcome is "Get well soon." We wandered around the city. Small towns are eerily desolate, even when populated, on weekends, We went to meet the tattooist and talked to him for hours about design. The dragons take shape and envelope the steady haze. In the time of Cholera, we go out for Thai. Fabulous Thai with the tattoo artist. The weekend was settling into a mold.

1 comment

so and so

smaller than a grain of sound,

we run off

undress our souls,
sparkle in the daylight
and
breathe

off we go
through the foliage
taking in
the taste of the trees

slow to start
we run in circles
drawing off ancient energies
of liquid air

we fall asleep
at water's edge
dreaming of the sage that 
disarmed us.

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