Thursday, February 5, 2009
Young man, first love; on the street in front of my childhood home, do you remember when I sang your song? I sang it all the way down this road. Sang of your diamond arms and the deep six am love. Lost track of prose and prayer, a year passed by becomes porous with dust bunnies. I zip up old wool, eleven hours left. Grass blades dead lights, attic. Music box shatters with a tilted head. Tiny shards of sound waves rush around the room turning to dust. Falling to the floor. Unwound tapes. To the young man with the diamond shaped arms, do you still walk down the road of your first love? To the young man with the diamond shaped arms, do you still walk down the street of your first home? Converting time into systematic loss. Burrowing far in between musty packing peanuts and rafters. Rebuilding china plates out of sand, two hundred pages.