Running on empty, ya'll.
Always wanted to write something that doesn't make sense. But the sense making apparatus is so strong, in me at least, that I always end up in some familiar (pedestrian) place.
I'm going to try to do what the Talking Heads advise me to do, to Stop Making Sense.
Magnets, Snow, Rust
Perhaps later, you said, we'll drive
into the desert to melt in the moonlight
Like watches on blue rocks. It's true
that you only needed to turn back time,
fold it neatly at the foot of your
hospital bed. Those wooly blankets,
smelling of campfire and sweat,
atomic bombs and stray dogs,
scratched me raw though I never
used them. You lied when you promised
to leave a foil-wrapped memory, something
small and bitter, on my pillow.
I only found a lock of your hair,
sprouting from the back of my head.
Death, you said, is just an illusion.
We swim backward.
Too bad. The last thing I want
is to repeat the stages of my youth.
Somehow I remember you
cradled me against your neck and I
licked your skin:
salt, oranges, dust.