May 29, 2010
The rum gets to me. The heat gets to me. The voices next door blend with the music and all I can imagine there is the beautiful girl I rarely see. In the other room my wife has taken paint and paper, intent on taking the world out for a ride. In far Los Angeles are names I want to know and can’t help but knowing, bodies I want to know and can’t help but knowing. In far Edinburgh, in Granada, in Paris, in Milano too. My senses as artifice run rampant and commit the rest to oblivion. At some point this all stops making sense, as we all do if we are honest enough. At some point the pursuit falters, the chase ends through exhaustion or death. Never does everyone go home happy. Someone sat by themselves at the orgy, looking through a straw at her feet. In the parks of Montreal couples hold hands, in the parks of Berlin couples make love, naked on the grass and on rocks above a beach in Denmark I sit blistering in sun writing poetry while white windmills turn on the sea. The line between memory and creation fails me or was never valid. Memory made again every day along with the world, a new one always, a new cry in the dawn and in the night, new blood that knows nothing and phantoms dashing across streets without words but refusing to be forgotten.