A u n t

You can read an obituary so skeletal it makes you want to vomit. But you were burned.  All the meat and sewage is gone. What is gone too, ghosties of the truth.

Let me tell you what I mean, Weetzies, I mean the shit is gone. And when shit it piles so high it becomes the maze, the contagion.

I’m so mad at myself for being trapped here with one voice that doesn’t cut down deep enough. Anymore. At least with my eyes.

You had no chances in fresh fields with hay or flowers.  It was hardcoded, the suffering of your life, double helix, double time.

They say you were wild but in the way that rabbits are wild, not cheetahs. I look at them now with my primate baby babbling on my hip and I see nothing, a plague of Australia with the camels and the tourists. They clamor and my eyes close. I used to find it all so precious.

I did not really know you, I will grant that. Sadness is one of my less deadly indulgences.  Grief’s net is wide, minnow minnow.

Nothing plumbs it. Sorry, condolence, sympatique. What we mean is fuck it was written wrong for you. Some fucking gorilla with a highball fist and your DNA cul-de-sacs in a ward of the state in a play town in the country.

I am babbling about it, but nobody knows what could have been and I don’t really know what was. I guess I am sorry for who you were and what you were and that’s insulting, but the pain of it is too much. They schooled the protests of unfairness out of us, tongue-bitten choke hold. But there is nothing more. Your own child cannot look at your life and see this is where god and fate took a holiday, copulated blindly on the verandah and everything spun out of control.

I was only ever close to you weeping for a near miss in a car accident. Then some damn angel covered his eyes and pulled me through a gray sheet to the other side of what could be and I reeled and reeled and had to clear it away with months of sun, lemon and tea.

They will never, ever clear it all away.

metatarsal meta-4 metalog

Metis.

What I cannot hear anymore is the voice I knew was obscure and strange. I have become expository and narrative, sanitized and commercialized as a book-and-coffee chain sanatorium. It is not broad strokes vs. pointillism. It’s digital vs analog. But with thoughts not fingers, as it’s almost-always been flowing from my Mavis Beacons since high school.

What a coupe to admit I used to like listening to myself whitter on so, before 140 characters and Siberia settled on LJ. All that journaling made a blogging bloody bold and resolute with a little smirk and nod to the left and right.

I cannot play so much because I maybe have incorrectly invested in the old aching ideas of story. Like somehow other people have any clue how the walls were built between worlds with words.

Children are born loving language and the sound of it. Age talks us out of and out of poetry and penultimate petulance.  The lip is hardwired, and the chin tremble is womb-fresh.

Blind search out the genealogy, as if Hattie and Queenie could tell me something more than every short-life platitude. One deathless, one faceless.

I miss miss miss being miss miss miss.

Stitch after stitch after stitch, knitting taught me muscle memory that calmed my throat chakra down to a cool burn. But that was supposed to be for my hands.

 

oligarchy l'original