Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Packing for home.

If I keep my eyes closed the entire trip maybe I won’t notice the 

freeway or the school or the sidewalks or the coffee shop’s red arm chairs or streets that lead to a bad call or the park or my closet or a drawing I rolled up and placed inside a vase on my white shelf. The shelf is attached to a wall, I kept my promise; it is on my wall, in all it’s reverent secrecy. 

From when I can see Lake Michigan 

until I can see the Atlantic again, my lids will be sewn shut in some kind of false oblivion. 

The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance

but I will still feel the pull of that magnet.

Like a child chasing a ball that went into the street.

I will do my best not to run out in traffic to retrieve you.

Chances are you won’t notice my return, or my departure,

but I will notice your presence coming to attack.

I heat the anger and sadness from my head and treat it like wax.

Melted down into a thin sheet I walk over everyday.

The ground slick but easy to adjust too.

I know you can remove it, can wash your hands just once

and tuck it away some place. But when will you look down and see how little skin you have left. Just protruding bones that you like to sharpen. 

I’m calm and I am fearless but I am still sick over the situation that has passed.

I buried it all under that bench.

And I would be shocked if those wild flowers ever grew the same way 

after we abused their beauty so severely.

I, who put to much faith in too dull of colors,

and you who thought you were handing me only dirt.

After all of it, you could only give me this?

I’m just picking scabs, don’t worry.

I don’t cling to you, you can’t cling to something so slippery.

You can’t cling to a love you were never convinced of.

I’m just packing, and somehow, every time,

you end up in my suitcase.

2 comments:

  1. The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificanceThe airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance.


    Mary Mary Mary:
    This thing on a whole is pretty fantastic.
    But that line transcends description and conviction.
    I don't know if I'm going where you went, but that doesn't matter.
    The whole thing is great and that line is perfect.

    I think it hit me mostly because of my juvenile tendency to see every occurrence in my life as a part of some story, and if not that, something I can use for a story. I can never let things just be and happen (I everyone does this, but I really really don't let anything go)

    In light of that, the AIRPORT environment has always been one too perplex, if not taunt, me as a writer and more importantly, as a human being BECAUSE of how dramatic airports are. At anytime, there are thousands of people leaving and beginning, trusting and distrusting, stressing and relaxing. There too much going on and it's all so CONCENTRATED that it just kills me. This is enhanced by the scary thought, the thought that I have often in airports, that everyone or most of everyone, has the same goal--to get to where they want to go. And I believe that the emotion, or that is to say, the CONCENTRATION of that emotion contributes to a sort of levity that kills my pen but at the same time shoots my brain into hyperdrive because I want to know what's going on and what everyone's feeling but it's IMPOSSIBLE.

    bbah bha bhahh

    Write a novel.

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