Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Lake Effect

Beautiful Kat Black, spend your January days under the covers. I've jumped towards what feels like springtime but dies in the heart. Count days and I'll come back, because the Stock Exchange is in the lights at night, because the red line will draw you north, because I can feel the pavement frozen cold and it is warm, so warm underground.

I was writing, tapping really, on my way home to leave again. Thirty floors up, there were bankers, tapping and waiting too. There were icicles on the train grates, dripping fingers clinging to the greatest throbbing mechanical beasts of the back-and-forth, city to suburbs on my slow route to the dead zones. There are trains right now, maybe slow in the snow, running in to the city that works.

Downtown is alive, cold and busy, sharp and real like the South won't ever be for me. If I could stay, I would live in a room with low wooden shelves and memorize the north-south streets from west to the lake. If I were a little girl I would crane my neck and try see the top of the Tower (but I do anyway, for nostalgia and vertigo and the few things I can't outgrow). If we could talk about all your dark secrets we could be the best of friends, and if I were an El train, I could open up to the cold, descend to the warmth, and say, "This is Chicago. New Orleans is next."

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Where the nose knows, we go, we're already gone

What do you do with a one-off line, when you can't even think of thinking of time? What dizzy listless things are you doing this morning, Mr. D—? Alex, whence will you walk? Have we never woken together, half cherished/half forgotten? Mariah, what does anything I say ever mean? Lamb, won't you want to see me? American livery, will you ferry me safely down? Angel, how does it end?

What's the postmodern gospel? In this life the saccharine sedentary sometimes looks like the other side. I'm melting into the mid-century mehs, hanging on a teaser and waiting on places the Cadillac didn't get you.

There's no phrase to match the lazy-daisy redhead maybes. I will try to hold tight to the cards I've got, hope I can wait for your colors to mirror my missing half. Rorschach imagined rainbow neurosis and I am clinging to the dream, you see! We can be blurry mystics on paper and hold ambiguity on high.

Jen, we can drink and kiss and freeze and cry and steal away, but I will never be your man. I thought it looked like the moon on my pillow, but it was only computer light. If it were emptier, I could empty my heart, and howl into all this cold white tile like I howled in the summer dark.