Friday, July 2, 2004

window

you’re very white, you should sleep, tonight; i think as i look at the curtains blowing from the wind i’d like to keep you with me for a while-just a while, not a long time; it’s kind of cold in here, with that window open, blowing soft; saying things that aren’t spoken; you’re the one who’s open, blowing down on me; you’re the only one i dream, you see; don’t leave me, breathe, and don’t leave me. . .my window, my flesh sea, i’ll take you with me. . .you’re glass, clear; something from within; something i can pass-and i’ve pulled open the window, taken out the screen; you seem cold inside, permafrost, and goosebumps outside, on your thigh. . .you’re beautiful, amazing, but you don’t see why; a window you are, picturesque, full of sky; seeing you just makes me cry; i can’t quite say those tears were sad; my dear, who made you and what made you this way?; i’d like to find out; i’d like to know; but you’re so white, and i think i know why. . .

you’re a ghost; the holy spirit, and here’s the words of a dying atheist; faith has time to grow; but i just don’t know; did your gaze meet mine?; did i really entice?; seeing you as i walked by. . .

my two boring spheres; the eyes, making one eye; my vision came upon your form; my passion, myself torn-beautiful, i adore; i could stare at you for hours; but time is pointless to me, when the time is now; i could only stare; seeing you as you walked by. . .and then so short of notice a goodbye. . .

your lips were torture, your hips vultures to eat me gutting out your side; legs were long curves so curvy they were hard to find; your breasts were a cluster of grapes: round, small, divine; your eyes were sky blue, deep tunnels wide; your hair was wild and all over, a tangle of shine; your cheeks were semi-circles transcribed; your tush was a killer, a murderer tried; your arms were meant to be wrapped around to hide; you were beautiful, and you walked me by; left me with only one goodbye-what i’d seen with my eyes. . .

you’re a ghost to me now, i go over the moment again; the memory i keep of you; i wonder where you are; what you do; i wonder what your name is; i try to think one for you, but none seems right; you’re just an apparition. . .a specter in the back of my memory; a cold window, a white window; you’re deathly pale; you’re frail; a banshee demurring in my head; that beautiful woman; it’s only me here, this maniacal pine; a tree with branches, i sigh. . .your temple could have been mine. . .

the faith, i find; the faith was just lust hanging on a vine; growing up the wall, creeping in my mind; your temple blinded me; i would have entered it inside; i would’ve desecrated it, made it mine; i would have eaten the body; i would have drank the blood as wine; the flesh i would have had; the communion to remember; i would have written and sang songs, written all about you; you would have been my bible-i would make the words for you; i would pen them down; they would be true; but you. . .walked me by. . .

someday you’ll be crucified; the crosses you carry will kill you; it’s the same for me; and your beauty. . .that is one of those crosses; it will one day die; the nails will inch on in; when you give into the desire it will be the cardinal sin; you’ll thin; your beauty will leave you, never to be seen again; and i would have done it; but someone else will. . .someone else will because you walked me by. . .

until then your haunting face cascades across my psyche; it pushes me open and lets me see the window-the memory. . .

rememberancers often are forgotten waste; a bad aftertaste; one day, this memory will be erased. . .that is why the words serve as the variable in the equation that is you-the banshee the specter the ghost, the window that’s right now open and close, one day to be closed. . .
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