A Letter, A Memo

free write september twenty-eight



sometimes it says it in a medium
drift with words of the best stock,
'small black lines between more of them,
and the grays, the so many of the shade.'
whispers turn into screams even if
you don't hear it.
it's southern gothic to me.

it's endless Bach with organs
and Chopin minors, stinging clarity
and the sore neck of the lady
in the elevator; the contrast
makes it the same.
evacuate your orthogonal plans,
no right angle saves a soul.
no right angle ever saved one.

the effect is what you are becoming:
a rabid thing of sorts,
spewing from the whistles
and grinding through maniac buildings.

I'd rather spin the wheel
and bet against odds.
it wasn't what everyone saw,
nor what everyone painted out.
this was a ruin at exactly the moment
that it became the ruin.

it thrills me to no end,
this freedom of a splintered soul
tends to itself like a nurse.
she feeds me sweets
and I forgive her for the bandages
wrapped too tight, and the sedative
she meant to,
but was actually speed.

I'd watch it for one moment
of sincere movement.
the casting of the cameo fitting.
[applause here.]
only, make it count and make them cry.
tears are their inspiration;
salt it with them and
make them wet with violent consideration.
they'll weep in gratitude,
they'll gift in retrospect.

and into the darkness I'll trend,

gladly and with eager banquet.