Thursday, March 17, 2011
Late Night High School Phone Call
courtesy of PBS
this nightmare turned reality has grown from my instability. i call your mother and ask for your number, my voice is breaking up as i'm breaking down - i tell her i'm sorry. maybe just for the late night high school phone call, maybe for a bit much more.
and i think of the birds and their flock, and with the formation it's still a scene of chaos. but the package is classical and coy. i promise to mirror myself after the birds the rest of the call. my temper is sore, so i slow down the tempo, listen to her list the numbers, count each one with the tip of my pencil. hang up the phone, it was about to destuct, i couldn't allow it.
with the phone down, i think off all the hurdles and exactly how they got where they're at. it had become my fault when stranded with my manic actions i forbode to disappear into that same thin air where you had found your eyewitness accounts (those which had only escalated the severity of the faults that would strand our survival) it was nothing without one another. and just so you don't misremember the distance didn't come from either of us moving, but instead where things had to take us. just that may i was escaping to your heart, by the dead hottest days the fight had gotten out. neither of us could have moved so quickly. we shied away from the risky.
so i sit depleted of everything but faults
holding the handrail the entire way down
that's what you do abandoned by escorts
and i believe in jesus, ghosts, and how unprofitable the bottom line is
but where has it brought me: just to a point where i want to let go, or be let go of
relieve myself of anchors and foundations that had mistaken the aggression of my guilt.
and range of my heart, i commiserate how the tiniest void can create the largest vacancy [in a pretty big heart]
the anchors and foundations crumbled under the acidic mixture
of our fears and my heart.