when you exist in a dimension just behind yourself
and a little to the side.
There is your silhouette, a few inches in front of your nose,
a perfect iridescent shell
so sheer that sometimes you forget it is there
but the space will always serve to remind you,
the untraversable piece of distance
that prevents you from ever being where you are.
I rested my head on my arms to get into a more comfortable position for the reading, which never appeared, because my hands were supporting my chin and not typing. There are no more carrots in my nose, I think, but the back of my throat does not feel very good, and I think if I sneezed really hard small carrot pieces might come out. I was about to write "sneezed hardly" but then I realized that that would mean exactly the opposite. How funny. Oh, I hate it when people make cliché observation-comments about language. And awkward hyphenated words. I swear, that was not meant to be artsy at all.
I ran into someone I used to live with today randomly on the street. I almost literally ran into him, but I stepped to the side. That's funny, I think, that I ran into him on the street, because a lot of times people say that they ran into someone on the street, but they usually mean they ran into them in a store or at an appointment or with a car, which is about as close to the literal meaning as they ever get, but I actually almost literally ran into him on the street. Er, well, it was on the sidewalk, actually, but that's sort of like the street. It is right next to the street. It is metonymically the street.
I don't really have anything else to say, I don't think, except that I wish things would happen in a way that I would want them to happen, and I hope that is what I mean and that the people who matter know what it means.
This is an interesting game,
one where he knocks on your door,
and you pull him in quickly after he begins—
he doesn’t react to your sudden jerking of his arm
Although the neighbors have seen already.
You know better than to slam the door in his face;
he will talk to the door, or to someone else,
who would be all too eager to listen.
He continues. You boil water for tea,
even though his hat’s still on and his coat’s hanging on his arm.
you leave the stove, pull down the blinds, hear grass bend under scattering feet.
Mr.-Demon-with-the-checkered-vest doesn’t ever close his eyes.
The rattling sound is the cup on the saucer in your hand,
walking back to the door,
hearing everything even though you’re not trying. Your shoes make isosceles triangles in the carpet.
You are the one who has to pour the drink into his mouth,
you are the one who takes him by the arm once more, moves him over to the three-piece living room set,
feels the slight dampness of the long handle in your apron pocket.
You are so beautiful and I am a fool
to be in love with you
is a theme that keeps coming up
in songs and poems.
There seems to be no room for variation.
I have never heard anyone sing
I am so beautiful
and you are a fool to be in love with me,
even though this notion has surely
crossed the minds of women and men alike.
You are so beautiful, too bad you are a fool
is another one you don't hear.
Or, you are a fool to consider me beautiful.
That one you will never hear, guaranteed.
For no particular reason this afternoon
I am listening to Johnny Hartman
whose dark voice can curl around
the concepts on love, beauty, and foolishness
like no one else's can.
It feels like smoke curling up from a cigarette
someone left burning on a baby grand piano
around three o'clock in the morning;
smoke that billows up into the bright lights
while out there in the darkness
some of the beautiful fools have gathered
around little tables to listen,
some with their eyes closed,
others leaning forward into the music
as if it were holding them up,
or twirling the loose ice in a glass,
slipping by degrees into a rhythmic dream.
Yes, there is all this foolish beauty,
borne beyond midnight,
that has no desire to go home,
especially now when everyone in the room
is watching the large man with the tenor sax
that hangs from his neck like a golden fish.
He moves forward to the edge of the stage
and hands the instrument down to me
and nods that I should play.
So I put the mouthpiece to my lips
and blow into it with all my living breath.
We are all so foolish,
my long bebop solo begins by saying,
so damn foolish
we have become beautiful without even knowing it.
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Lovely, lovely, lovely.