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down from the high point
Jul. 25th, 2003 01:21 pmunder the overpass toward the east toward the blank spot where the sun once was I looked. And nobody looked back. Not wives or colors or fallen leaves. The towers dappled before me, blasted and washed looking with a cleanliness reserved for rain-burning sun-and more rain that cleanliness you can't trust, can't eat off of but at this distance the sunstains and waterblotches grow to indistinguishability. Who colored them that way? I half think, though before I complete it, the thought scatters on other winds.
That is what we are reduced to, other winds. Alien winds in our own private alien environs, haunts of voices and muggy memories. Every inch to gather, every buttress to strengthen. Then afterwards we sit sipping wine from handblown vases, styrofoam dug from the heaps, a throwaway canister anything at hand anything to get it down.
Imagine that pillar of salt, she said.
Yeah. Tall and womanly.
Yeah.
Then silently each finger found purchase on our flesh. Each bug sound insect song many legged clamor stroked the walls and found its way down below to where I stood gawping at the lightless east. So I turned and they waited there behind me, smiling.
Yeah.
Gusts tripped in, clumsy winds now tepid now hot each one hoped to bust down the wall the person the fallen branches. Wind abraiding the useless slope of the overpass, until enough wind had come to give it use again: if not for anything else but a place out of the damned damned wind.
What bricks would I use to take out those windows? I idly wondered as the faces staring at me wrinkled or twitched minutely, clothes giving rustling voice to the hapless wind. Above us all there was the gathering of shades of men and women and undivided others clutched tightly to one anothers bosom tightly to flesh to leather to insect wing.
But together we just longed for being apart, I murmured.
Nothing like a smile creased the faces. And nothing like a memory rose in their eyes. So tomorrow was written in new expressions, and pastless facility responding only to momentary urgencies momentary torments.
Huh.
What does an inarticulate say before the clock strikes the next hour and frees everybody from this embrace of instants?
No, wind. No warming across this somnolent distance, this abrasive disaffection. For that, you'll need our lust.
That is what we are reduced to, other winds. Alien winds in our own private alien environs, haunts of voices and muggy memories. Every inch to gather, every buttress to strengthen. Then afterwards we sit sipping wine from handblown vases, styrofoam dug from the heaps, a throwaway canister anything at hand anything to get it down.
Imagine that pillar of salt, she said.
Yeah. Tall and womanly.
Yeah.
Then silently each finger found purchase on our flesh. Each bug sound insect song many legged clamor stroked the walls and found its way down below to where I stood gawping at the lightless east. So I turned and they waited there behind me, smiling.
Yeah.
Gusts tripped in, clumsy winds now tepid now hot each one hoped to bust down the wall the person the fallen branches. Wind abraiding the useless slope of the overpass, until enough wind had come to give it use again: if not for anything else but a place out of the damned damned wind.
What bricks would I use to take out those windows? I idly wondered as the faces staring at me wrinkled or twitched minutely, clothes giving rustling voice to the hapless wind. Above us all there was the gathering of shades of men and women and undivided others clutched tightly to one anothers bosom tightly to flesh to leather to insect wing.
But together we just longed for being apart, I murmured.
Nothing like a smile creased the faces. And nothing like a memory rose in their eyes. So tomorrow was written in new expressions, and pastless facility responding only to momentary urgencies momentary torments.
Huh.
What does an inarticulate say before the clock strikes the next hour and frees everybody from this embrace of instants?
No, wind. No warming across this somnolent distance, this abrasive disaffection. For that, you'll need our lust.