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Posts Tagged ‘Immortality’

Turning Paige

Her window is an eye into the soul
a gateway and more, so much more
it is a mirror, the whole of which
compliments her eyes like the light blue
sweater she wore under the starry sky.
From her chair she sees her reflection
in this connect the dot universe
of stars so bright they collapse
under the weight of words like ‘where’
and ‘when’. As if ageless has a meaning
for men. As if she could be more than dust
masking flesh.

She silently turns her diploma so it faces the floor
and with it she turns every page from every book
in her college’s library. They say at the center
of this pinwheel galaxy there is a core
so thick, so dense, it devours even light.
She wonders if such a sightless thing
can feel each atom smash into its
smooth black skin.

The gravity of objects
always made her miss a man’s touch.
Gravity doesn’t desire like that
it doesn’t do cupid.
If it did, kisses would explode
and people would implode
after they do something stupid
like hold a hand too soon
or hug a man too tight
or love a person too much

Her name tag read “Paige”,
a pseudonym because waitressing
has too much gravity. She wore
it with the ring she wished was real.
It felt heavy as she fingered it under the stars.
The mirror in the window revealed
a moon and a field of stars so bright
it betrayed the night as a possible morning.
In the dust that covered everything else
was an endless universe concealed
like an ancient scroll
whose skin had been preserved by
fortune. An accidental immortality,
and even in that immortality,
a certain type of death.

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“Yes.” Slow motion city environment passed outside the window of the car. A gentle rocking meant movement. It was dark, then it was light, it had been another day. Towering buildings would appear in the distance and then pass, covering Elle in shadows and then revealing her into the light of day. It was the water boarding one becomes used to when you live in the city. “Naked.”

Elle’s mind went back to that night in the old man’s study. She and her mysterious lover had broken into a house in a fit of romantic passion. They would’ve sooner gone at it on the fresh grave if they had known. “Dead. Apparently for some time”. Now Mr. Fletcher “Pierce Fletcher. A writer apparently” wanted a go at her after his long retreat to Kentucky. Just her luck, when it rains it pours, and all she wants is an umbrella.

“Of course you’ve never heard of him. He isn’t published.” Writers were all the same. Each and every one was a Romeo. Young, stupid, brash… the Don Quixote’s of love. She was a windmill to be conquered. “Cute, I guess. A little foppish.”

Her mind finally honed back to reality. Another strip of shadow passed along her face allowing it to cool off. She was in the passenger seat of a red Buick Park Avenue. Its driver was another Quixotic writer but luckily a female.

“Writers are the best you know.”

“Best what?”

“Lovers.”

“I am sick of lovers and of love.” Nothing could be further from the truth but closer to her heart at that moment. Love blinded her mystery lover and made him cold and ruthless in his love. Love blinded Mr. Fletcher by allowing him to forgive her sunbathing incident without a second thought. Imagine if he had walked in on mystery man lying naked on the desk. Elle imagined an old fashioned western erupting between the two. For the first time in 24 hours she smiled.

“So that’s why you clearly need to get back on the horse… or even better… the cowboy.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening. Could you repeat that?”

“Very fun Ms. Scardanelli. You know what I mean.”

Elle’s eyes shifted from outside the car to it. “Well Ms. Fu. I am sorry my hearing is so poor.” A shadow passed over her face from the outside illuminating her profile.

“What about Mr. Mysterious. We should really give him a nickname. Something fitting.” The car entered a tunnel.

“How about Holden?”

“A little too Catcher and the Rye, don’t you think?” Elle visibly detested her suggestion.

“The invisible Bellarmin would suffice.” She rebutted.

“I don’t even know who that is.”

“Well then you throw something out.”

“Odysseus. Master of Artifice.”

“You always had a thing for the Greeks. I think it’s a stupid name.”

“Well I am beginning to think that Kasmira Fu isn’t such a hot name either.”

“Well my parents didn’t get the memo that Chinese and Russians weren’t allowed to have children. At least I grew up learning the two best languages for literature.”

“Oh because the Italians and the English never wrote anything great.”

“Oh please. Writing is easy with Italian and English. Everything sounds pretty. Anyway back to young Odysseus.”

“He’s a writer. We made an agreement to not exchange names. I told him Elle was a fake name and told him to call me that.”

“And now you’re in over your head.”

“He said I was his key to immorality. He said that I was going to make his name echo through eternity.”

“Imperishable renown is cold comfort when you can only enjoy it in the tomb. He was saying those things to charm you. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Yeah. I guess.” But I wish he wasn’t.

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On the contrary, dear friend, with the assumptive brow
this is not merely the mouth of the sewer, not merely a road-side pit stop
it is the human experience. A metaphor which goes to show
the grotesqueness of an imagination not unlike the image itself
composed by an image within an image with a mind.

Sorry to interrupt you wasting your time, perhaps you can thank
Heideggar, or Husserl, or Hume for this break in reality.
I speak in nothing but lies, if lies are what you call things with
no reflection, no taste, no smell, and no size. Truth is for fire,
for electrons, and for monarch butterflies.

Did you ever stop to reflect on how words consume
your thoughts to excrete black lines. Like waste thrown
against a canvas of white. What purity isn’t worth such a delight?
Perhaps these lies are worth more than the purity of truth
A world opposed to the world we have imagined for ourselves.
Gods and bacteria…

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The Other Man

What comparison can be made
to a man with lines written on his face,
his feet forever displayed?

If only my birth could have been delayed
So as to hide me from his shadowed grace.
What comparison can be made?

He walked as if his name will never fade
From book, or clime, or empty space
His feet forever displayed.

Next to his, my work is a chthonic shade
Locked in a forgotten place
What comparison can be made?

His name written on the day
The ink of his pen with blood replaced
His feet forever displayed.

His undoing, an enemy’s grenade,
a poem written with force and haste.
What comparison could be made?
His feat is forever displayed.

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Watch the clockwork children play,
two pupiled place holder eyes
long for the path of the freeway
that their forefathers criticized.

At night, they sleep, without fear
of snakes and monsters under the bed.
Mom’s comforting prayer
“You can’t die if you’re already dead.” 

Bravery is only a virtue if you have something to lose
but all that can be lost is the nothing they are
brains in computers, programmed to choose
between options too real and too far.

They are the new Achilles, born in the Styx,
walking zombies that death cannot fix.

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Sky, a soft and gentle knight
With flaming sword and lunar shield
whose unfurled banner hides from sight
the heavens and it’s gold.

Man has pawned his dreams
for steel. Emissaries in bishop hats
with fire so bright it seems
to be from the myths of old.

Earth, our verdent queen
has dawned a Virgin blue
to watch her child become unseen
In the dark and endless fold.

Woe, a realization made too late,
that our dream, but not our destiny, is great.

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