Bell and Wind

1)

It is nice to site her, to sit here and in words quiet wonder if she exists. Does
she exit the page and into another dimension. Clinging to clanging. Makes
space. Skipped lunch, a hunger designed.

Your charms, an odor ineffably you caught in a weave, that is your writing.
Does she exit the cloth and come clean.

A light. Shines through words, what speaks out of a life, minutes captured and
transformed or projected onto the matter, a cracked reference to see through
tint. A humor I know little of. A bile made apparent. One beat then two beats.
One of another member remembers. Whistling around a corner. Pink machine.

Again. A gain and a lost loss. A can opened to nourish. A hunger spin a sore
spine curled. A bell. Bong. Teeth. Chatters. A record of mental wellness.
Because you so seldom spoke of pique and so seldom speak of poke. A weedy
inheritance.

A love struck occurrence, a currency. Swift. Shot through with. Quiet. A
propeller broken spoken. A noise of another banged. From a convexity (love)
with a spoon. The little sleeps and dreams. A basic breed. A greed. Advanced,
encouraged, redlined like hot sex in papers. Echoed in buildings, personages.
A need by design.

It is one thing to see quite another to be seen. To relate. Relish the late. Hour
of quiver. A momentary leaf to a screen. To hide loves sad biddance. Clear
bareness.
 

That lovely soup recipe. For tonic add tears and admonish.
 

2)

Or hear a willing tree and leave. A willing sky and leave. A blue willing. A
color named cobalt. A salt taken for balance. Growing upward and outward. A
singularly uniform. Expression of the inside hung out. Sex me. As a tree.
 

Which means she has choices?  Banging as a way into song, into sugar intact
as a substance, clinging tongue. Clang or cling? Grope or cling? Fall short or
misbehave? Which means she has choices?
 


 
 

A motor running under my tongue. Along the shaft and soft underbelly. A
peek under the girlhood. I run my mouth in a southerly fashion particular to
each town. Smashing mouthy must. Smitten with my ear to your globe. Inside
your soft anger fixes me. Hides its grace. Its givenness. A trait like a crack.
You can’t trace. Only inherit. The mouth you are in a battle to be forgiven
with. That is never a triumph.
 

The lake of your eyes or someone else’s eyes. The lack of eyes. Instead lies.
The sad confluence of my reticence and your need. A fruitful contingency
rings. An autumn day ripe with sunlight. As a sort of gratitude. As a clatter.
As a witness. The trouble I’m in. And the way I wait.
 

3)

I become indeterminable long after the meaning made clear to me the
advantage of such a determination. I became not determined to love or find
satisfaction or even to keep my house. I determined this after much study of
facts, which are consequences. I will always know its you in the drive with a
particular noise your car makes. I will always be startled by that whistle one
day before I found it was you. That placed me and made me airy a minute,
then solid. I deter the usual information about myself. I am more than a
collection, a datum. I am not the machine, I was no brought up. I have needs
like data switching off and on in me. Like the refrigerator motoring on and off
to nowhere. A destination of degree. It needs juice and I need juice, and to
dissolve in you occasionally. Which is to take the grainy bits and make a
substrate and beg for immersion and this way to swallow up in imagination.
Bits so constituent such that it hurts too much not to be loved by you. And by
you. And by all of you.
 

I heard the cough and the shuffle of feet that means someone nearby is also
not merely apparent. It’s silly I know to reduce it to that. But more plausible
than to select a particular attitude or posture as a standard of presence. Or to
picture you walking up the drive. You bear instead a continual regress or
recidivism. Which is not your fault or any indication of your constitution.
Rather that I wish it were opposite not of what is which is what I don’t know
but of something imaginable. If I have lost your love I could get it back.
That sort of infallible logic. The logic of no failure.


 
 

How else am I to contain my composure at any possible minute?  How else
but to imagine the invisible props of discourse or a labyrinth continually
shifting in design that nonetheless leads me onward. The advantage is walls
that approach only ankles, yet I trip. Though it look small I forget to myself
the magnitude of my restriction. I wanted a labyrinth of warm soapy water.
That is I wanted a childhood instead of what I got taken away from me. I was
always a research assistant or I was myself the source of facts. My toes formed
the basis of an early assignment. That is how I began to build these tiny walls.

My love I have not forgotten that if you do not call me there is still a chance.
There is always chance but will it greet me and will it be impressionable. I
would suggest to chance that it be more sure of itself where I am concerned. I
would say chance you may one day father my child shouldn’t you act more
self-confident. Determine me. The door opens up in my body that lets the idea
of another body in. It’s an ideal door coded for time release in my genes. I can
not urge open or ease it. I cannot even find it except through a consideration of
you finding your way back to me. Then it becomes as imaginable as the walls
of my maze but smaller and less exact. Keep squirting reason in my direction
and I’ll oil its tiny hinge. I’ll caress it lovingly as a hinge that bites might
receive my caresses on that tiny part where it cannot bite and I will consider
whether it were brass or lavender or to be much less exact, which is flesh. I
smell you on me so its tragic to be alone and think that I will never forget you.
That my genes in their preparation will remember you into my skin. As we
have shifted about in here to accommodate your possibility.

Your anger and sadness are real indications of my limitations. And my
imitation of myself, or how I thought self should be. That I had a self, at least,
to be in when I wasn’t in language. Let’s get outside words and back to our
real selves. Except that I want to be in the word muscle or a feeling like a
muscle that wants to be stretched now or very soon so that you’ll contact me.