I want stationary. To write letters. There are no more stationary stores it’s all electronic stories that fry into the night my eyeballs thickened by blue illuminated screens. I want to send letters spiraling out over the land. To document. To pour liquid from heart’s recesses, to post.
“Post” now means to plant in invisible ether-soils of internet, an internet which will soon maybe be shut down or rather out–the poor people ousted with the elimination of net neutrality. The new corporate takeover or should I say the latest as always. Pay out the nose for broadband, nosebleed section we’re once again relegated to. I barely understand all this but my email inbox fills with doomsday message. My email inbox fills.
Yesterday the front-page story of the Seattle Times: POLAR ICE CAPS ACTUALLY MELTING.
Will any of this any of us be saved. What is it, to be “saved?” There are differing accounts. My first woman lover of years ago is strapped to an oxygen tank and thinks of herself as Godzilla. The steroids swell her cheeks and feet. She jaw-sets, piles jokes over all the yawning canyons of grief, blinks. Two different lung diseases, exceedingly rare, one caused by a freakish allergy to pigeons. PIGEONS. She promises to roar, tell me things, show me her prayer stick. She will turn 34 years old this week.
How can I speak to her of graduation, of struggling to find my place, make my place in the poetry world. How can I speak of yoga and my hardening shoulders, abdominal muscles? I must because we cannot she will not allow the putting her under the examining Eye, we must go on as usual, life as it is today going on and on. But once she thanked me, in a completely still and clear freezeframe: Thank you for holding Death, with me.
A real and not imagined sackcloth, a growing shadow, a loom. The flexibility and also ruler’s-edge of Time. Its accumulation, its slippages. All the sands, funneling.
Oh my friend! My friend!
(They’re talking heart-and-lung transplant, now.)
And everything else shrinks. Preoccupations. The literary world and its rules and gatekeepers. Or my possibly faulty perceptions of it all. Politics at my job. Student loans. What the fuck.
I have these moments where Life becomes completely unclothed. Where it is so clear that these elaborate garments are restricting the breath, smothering skin. Oh skin. Glory.
I too am sliding steadily toward my death.
And people peopling their dreams with security guards. Let us not police our lives. Our wild precious selves. Let the guardians go ungroomed!
I return to the table as a place of realness. The fibers of the paper, only viewable close up. This blue plastic bottle of water. Fresh water that gushes from the tap. Such abundance.
May I not stray far from this.
From my skin and mouth, my writing fingers, my sucking tongue, imperfections.