Monday, December 21, 2015

from "Gottlieb is Burning"

Jesse S. Mitchell

And knowing
The secret ruination of everything, the moving, the shaking, the minor key always playing, the down strum, the upstroke, the heart pounding silences in the centers of the days.  The tick tock, the behavior downstream, the updraft, the impeccable mess, the random dancing of the tongue lashing flickers of the flames, the eyes darting back and forth.
And knowing
That there is oxygen in this air, still oxygen enough to breathe and  oxygen enough to burn.  The noble gases, the sideways glances, the awkward passes, the minutes, soft and fragile, of glass.  Time that shatters and scatters and can never be lived again, ameliorate the rag-tugging miseries, gin-soaked as all the sounds everywhere forever swell and crash, the pitch as wild as any ocean.  We remember. We remember the tide, the rush, the life in the shallow pools.
And knowing
Beyond movement and movement, a cascading plunge of total stillness, the crystal immersion, dispersal, gone.  But back where we belong, we can’t even touch flesh to flesh without dust and metal, and metal just all steel and iron, and comes to nothing but rust and when the rust rusts away, nothing but more dust.  Handfuls of barely audible sound in each fist, pumping for volume, drying out the well, drying out the land, wastes, wastes and rocks.          

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