Thursday, January 5, 2012

flirting with a life only spoken

flirting with a life only spoken

We’re drunk and sparking, our legs are open
Our hands are covered in cake
But I swear we didn’t have any
“The Geese of Beverly Road,” The National, Alligator

someone had to tell him
and even then he may not have listened

a recipe is not a cake

he had a certain affection for words like trapeze
or parachute or the curve of her neck when she’s laughing close-eyed

but he couldn’t even compel himself to watch the movie
of the man who found himself trapped by his arm under a boulder

much less swinging through the air high above the ground
or leaping from a plane with only cloth and rope to guide him down
or leaning close to press his face and lips against her humming throat

no he did not need to make decisions about cutting himself free
in order to return somewhat disfigured to a life being lived

instead his was less dramatic: flirting with a life only spoken
narrated like a voice-over in a movie always being filmed

people had made him think
over and over about this bag of rocks

he gripped until his knuckles turned white
and his wrist ached to the point of breaking

it became this thing of carrying with no intent
no quarry left or sought for his bag of rocks

just a denial like an oath or solitary confession
shouted in an empty forest of trees bare of leaves

paralysis was more than a word however
for him

like stasis
or Sisyphus always in pause at rock and hard place

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