She is singing. Even though it is ivory, even though it is piano keys
the encroaching chords sound like holiday bells bowties to a forearm of ivy
over a yuletide glower. The first snow of the year. Frost dotting up the slate
of the windshield parked in the same direction along Sherman avenue. A virginal
snow more like the blanket crocheted for a newborn by grandmothers who wear
dentures. It is the curtain call season.
It is solstice where years, later I will filch a cheap bottle of Mogen David
Concord Red (thinking solely about Jo march in Little Women, the Winona Ryder version
at the word Concord) and escape into Bradley park, the hill behind the
graffiti’d Columbus statue where my brother Patrick will lose his romantic
virginity to the female who will bear his child, the female who I first met at
the Christian Center sometime in late 95, somehow, the snow doesn’t cover the
earth as much as caresses it. Embraces it. Somehow (especially with crinkled
leaves) the light pattering of a fresh silver dust bounces against the illuminated cue-ball of the nearest lunar orb.
Reading the palm of someone who has never seen the
emergence of the sun.
She becomes a goddess .She becomes a exhalation of
the zephyr, the exclamatory phallus the first time Male entered woman; she is letting go of emotion and in January if
the year when I am in 8th grade I by the tape from the recently
relocated Co-op in campus town I by the
tape thinking that she is somehow like enya, like somehow every time I listen
to her chords mingles with the swan-song with the girl who is imprisoned in the
box and only listened to half of the first song.
She is singing about the season that is to come, the
season whose astronomical hymen will be broaches four days before Christmas,
when she gets a little warmth in her heart.
I am lost. Something is not right with the coffee
Bob and Frank gave me. I am missing Renae. I am wondering what the fuck
happened to Dawn. The room seems to be on a loose jointed tilt-a-wheel at the
state fair. I am falling. I am into the chords of voice emanating from my
stereo. I am walking on a yellow brick road of crystal snowflakes. I am buoyed
in in the inky backdrop of outer space, mu body the size of an ear, buoyed to
the womb, umbilicus ensconced in a
carbonated placenta hatching
limbs. I am awakening again. I am lost in the ruffle of the jingle bell chords.
I have forgotten the cashmere armor of my sweater, I am naked and cold, I am trying wield out the blade of flesh from
between the stiff of my loins like a
parliamentary sword knighting myself into the Avalon of adulthood. I am watching as the Gideon bible floats up
out of my pocket, disintegrating into apostolic molecules and epistle sounding syllables followed by
numerical digits and inky colons. I am
rising. I am wondering when I am going to make up my mind. I am wondering when
I am going to love you as much as I do.
The feminine voice with the ashen white skin and incendiary Pentecostal
hair, a crimson hue attached to her lips.
I am levitating with my belly contra carpet, I am
channeling past the drywall ceiling tiles past where the upstairs shower drips
and it peed residue on the baseball cards I kept in Kraft cheese cardboard
cylinders. I am hovering through the upstairs attic my father dug out and then
layered cheap blue willow linoleum, I am dissipating through atomic Tetris
blocks of reality, finding myself outside, above, looking down at the only
domicile I have ever known, bald thatches of loose chimney, I am rising above, her voice is breath
ferrying me in a chariot bulb of breath, the time of year when the body exits
itself verifying that for a terse moment we are here, in winter, breath
alleviating from the forehead from the planet in whispers, finding myself
turning around following on my bed.
All I can see is the college girl next door.
She looks like she is lonely.
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