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January 14, 2010
Daughter of the Mountain
It’s a story that began in middle earth,where the relentless energy of all we cannot control or understand
travels across right and wrong and down through spirit valleysinto the unseen shadows of lightbetween our human bones.
It’s a story that I already know and I wonder if you do too.
It’s a story authored by a trampwith a santa beard and a mischief heartwho spins and spins on metal discs in playgrounds
then flings himself offthe second before lifting the pen.
It’s a story I thought I didn’t need to hear again
and now I too am reeling in circles,giddy, dizzy and alonein the end.
The end I’ve read so many times,yet here we are fighting so fiercely,
so dangerous and defrosted and naked
over what happens in chapter two,
and I’m going to let you write it,
Am I going to let you write it?
It’s a story whose ashes still fester in my abdomen
refusing again to rise to a better place,
and now I see the cinders there
staring back at mefrom the genie lamp in your iris,
your strangely familiar face.
This story is a staple meal for Beauty, Agony, Loneliness, Magic
and eventhe Gods of gods,Life and Life in Death.
They eat it like coconuts,smash it open, slurp its blood,taste it on their tongues, their throats,
revel it its descent,then they rip it apart and gnawat its flesh andthrow it away,an empty shell of a tiny story,
In the shell of an old story I will sit with youand watch on curiously as you touch me for the first time:
the arm, the head, the hair in my eyes,the shoulder, the waist, the mouth,the cheek, the mouth, the mouth,the thigh, the breast,and yes,that’s right, I told you to stop,to stop, to...stop.
In this story I’m the addict and you know all the tricks:poetry music magic far away mountains lepricorns and russian ushanka hats,
oh, and they way you kiss my earslike they’re the secret keyto the only box I was trying to keep formyself.
It’s a story in which even a kiss is culturally subjective,
and I’m on all fours againin the sand, making mud cakeswith soggy, salty treacle
only I’m too old now to read this
without feeling sick.
I know this story as it begins with a naked girl
with sticky handsand a broken tonguealone in a room with an almost stranger,
wondering what happened
to the beautiful clothes she planned on wearing
with the dying flowersthat no longer look fitto crown her head.
And it ends the same way it beganwith the forceful, thoughtlessness of a beautiful young man
who believes in magicand makes sure he gets itwho ever it belongs to
even if it’s mineand I carry it in the heart of my womb.
It’s a story that’s a lot happier than the way I remember it.
Euphoric in fact.And yes,
I’ve often had the audacity to call it love.
I like to read it again and again,sifting through the pagesfor the exact momentmy ravishing need for Life becomes my
Perhaps I’m thinking if I just knew
I could forget,move on. Forget. Move on.
Perhaps I’m calculating that there’s a certain moment
in a certain chapter,where, if I hold the pen really tight,I might just escape
with most of my soul organs in tact.
Or perhaps, in fact, I’m only reading, reading this story
because its author is my muse;
this giddy, musical man,half naked, unshaven, in the playgroundwithout a home,dancing to the sheet music burnt into the disc of the sun
as time goes by unnoticedon a silent metronome
a jacaranda seed, an upside down city,
a red scarf, a white lie,an undelivered gift
a familiar face, a stolen gracean almost untraceable preludeto the saddest, most beautiful eulogy
ever sungon the eveof a birth.
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