The Third Wheel

Nov 8, 2009 1:36am

Tangent 1:12 Sunday

So yeah, still talk to you. It’s still comforting.

The things still hang in the garage that you held. Oh to raise your prints and to resurrect your smell. It breaks my heart to come home and find solitaire on the computer, because it breaks my heart to know what that means. Got tired of salting my coffee to start the day and so I salt the drink, tired of salt either way.

I want to canvas every inch of the walls of this room and write until there isn’t a space left for one more word. Then I would know there is nothing left to say or at the least there wasn’t any room left to say it or at the least the room I was in was atleast saying something. Instead I would stare like Pollack dripping ink, wishing I could create a roomless room, waiting for it with the lust of a man without law. An Impatient apprehension.

That instead, a gimme-gimme tip-toe, as is life, with this first stroke the heaviest and the thirst for that first word, barren by the cursed consciousness. A mirage see so when you go to write it, crawling invertabrate, tattered through desiccant sand, it is not at all the quell or the quench you saw waver before you, the pool nor the palm. The word is stale and you spit the dirt clumsily though full heartedly from your arid tongue, pressing harder only deepening your mistake. So you stand and you slouch dripping paint, dripping ink.

Such a precarious step for a confident stumble to grab iron, grip and not budge the sword.

The trepidation that the lake is a pond, is a puddle, offering nothing but a reflection that your words are waxed and weightless. The read on the poetry beat that skips in girded and saunters out shirtless. The fear that your fear and your fire will kill each other quietly…behind curtains.

So you think, you think a vow of silence. Too much to say means to scream, to scream, so you take that vow of silence, and drip, and drop indecipherable ink.