last night, i wrote something which i had forgotton and cannot now retrace.
Cold hands
and someone is dying tonight.
someone is always dying and it is always tonight.
somewhere, the body of a man passes over, turns over, releases, acquiesces. death is lonely and unknown, asleep--a dream that visits nightly. somewhere, the face of a woman gives way, the muscles go loose and the contours melt--the eyes go flat and dull, the picture of brave solitude unfolding.
tonight the air was cool, a temptation against my burning face and melting flesh. it sang serenely sweet or cunning, touching my hair saying, "escape, child". i'd heard it only when i was finally walking in, closing the door beside me. the room i'd entered made it a task to breath with my lungs. and what a moment. i thought, "this room is stifling," i had to use my whole body and every cell in it, if you can believe that, clinging and desperate for some kind of balance.
only the pure of heart may pass this way unscathed, intact, sainted, smiling, at peace. only the conscience cleansed may go on to remember and learn and remember again--if remembering is living then we are all senile and talking to walls.
oh whats the use in it? whats the use in trying to figure it out? i'm no writer. i'm no writer if i can't be clear in what i mean or what i tell about what happens to people.
i must strive to be more direct.
i have bits, scattered and miserable too.
19:45 - Saturday, Apr. 02, 2005
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