rogerdr (rogerdr) wrote,

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Once Again I Find Myself

stumbling through the thorny undergrowth that somehow found a sip of moisture between one word and the next. How do I come to this? I, who so rarely even opens my mouth in public except to stop it up again with glass bottles or cigarettes? How can someone I've only just met feel alienated by a few stock phrases strung together in what for others has proven to be, at worst, mindless chatter? Could she have been hoping for more from me? Is that it? Is that all?

another face lost in the crowd. Probably not forever, knowing this tired and tortured city as I do. I can comfortably forget the particular inflections used, as long as the subject remains, quietly tending summer flowers in its garden just on the edge of my memory. Someday, perhaps she will walk down a path primrose-lined, and I'll have a bloom waiting to hand her.

of this much, I am certain. The sun may no longer swing to the beat of earthly drumming, but the the dog and his hunter still tread softly upon the crystaline sphere centered on me. Oh, from their perspective, if they were to break that dome into subtly curved shards, they could as easily fall upon her, but I am the one who sees this. As certain I am of my ignoble stance, I know that when she looks up, the seven sisters flee heros from a less prosaic myth. Surely, this was one reason that, though her vocabulary and diction fell well within parameters I recognized as domestic, we were speaking different languages. That unnameable one whom she fears, entrusts, and holds closer to her heart than any lover she may ever have; that one I have felt no need to look for, nor grasp, nor tell my troubles to; that one she called Lord; that one exists only for those who have something to fear.

unable to reach the top shelf for a volume of certainties I often lost myself in when my body was younger than my mind and stronger than it knew. A wry smile. To tell myself that I only wanted to look up an obscure fact of the otherworldly voyage that strangely hasn't found its way into pages brightly dusted with knowledge in far more excruciating detail would be lying to only one, but of course now you also know. She knew. Is that why she walked away in a cool demeanor that left her friends puzzled and me myself? The book I can reach, which can best be described as containing less knowledge itself than the fractal boundary of what knowledge seeks, says nothing of what true astronauts saw under the shadowed legs of their gold-foiled peregrine home, but rather what a man's dream of a G.I. adventurer saw in a bar of questionable repute surrounded as he was by creatures with silhuettes harder to trace than those of mice on the moon. I have grown beyond what she might call the desire for concrete sources. I mapped out that territory when the telescopes and conquistadores were still earthbound; I ache for the places where all the sources cry out against the deep cold. I defy essential dignity. Is it because she longs to hear only the loudest voice that she shut her ears to mine? She called me lonely, but at least I can say the sources of my song write new lyrics with every breath.

alone. But so is she.

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