This is my 500th post. Thanks and love to everyone who continues to support, encourage and silently approve of this project. Through rough and wonderful times it has served me well, and I hope that during both it can do the same for you.
The way the road curved around Indianapolis, like a concrete merry-go-round, I felt joy but not enough to drop by unannounced—that is bad luck, isn’t it?—so I went straight on through until morning
where upon returning to my suite I woke up half-naked, burning between my sheets, and now buzzing with plans I have no aim for.
Unplugging the hair-dryer from the wall, I stuck my fingers too close to the wattage and now I am slightly alive—
have you shocked yourself lately, sweet mystery?
Have I been holding an unlit candle? you must know when love dies, don’t you, you’ve written it down somewhere, your journal would be so lucky! to feel the flourish of your fingers, which I once watched as if they were in a dance themselves.
Maybe one day we can write a poem together and then we’ll really be dancing.
My jacket is useless, crisp as the air and just as cold, and the gray sky giving me no light to work with. Still, all is in silent motion…
The ice-sculptor begins to chip away at the block as morning stretches onward, burdening itself with birds that fly as if carrying an urgent message. The fields have been thoroughly raked. Flowers. What main course? My stomach is in too many knots. I have been ironing more often. People notice on the streets that I’m ready for something but they’ll never guess. The harpist tightens her strings as the piccolo-player composes a variation of “Sweet Disposition,” and girls encircle my mind prettied up by dresses, blank white as canvas. It doesn’t matter to me what color they are so long as they match— it is your decision.
So I go about my day, often checking the mail, and seeing everything like this it is no wonder that I am sad. My candle flickers.
How much emptiness, I wonder, is needed to feel empty?
Consider me even in your cloudiest daydreams. It’s good to start somewhere. Have you received my invitation yet? I licked it myself. And inside, I threw in a handful of leaves, whose vibrant colors serve as a subtle reminder that no matter how many autumns pass, a leaf is still a leaf,
and love, it seems, is no rsvp.
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