Saturday

Sand and Smoke

There are things carved in relief. Like the skeletons of churches, a sub-rosa apparatus beneath bone. I am always drowning in marrow. Decision tips an hourglass; what was sand is smoke. She got her first tattoo in a shop on second street; a kite that ribboned its tail around her wrist. Years later, a diner in Trent; a backwash of Bakelite and teak. She smoked clove cigarettes, lips drawn in stitchlines. We questioned, teeth to skin, reflections in a third eye; images fell from an iris' edge- impressions lost in the drift. Borromean dropped a ring, what was left was crossed. Behind a heavy door, a kite with a faded tail identifies the wrist. A man in a smock with sleeves too short for his arms traces its marbled flight; beneath his palm he knows every scar is a victory.

Friday

THIS IS WHY I WRITE said the Gods, unaware that his/her/its memories were missing: and so we write; we wish we wrote, wish we took pens with us to bed, covered our blankets in paper, filled our pillows with ink and rearranged our dreams in terms of consonants and syllables and meter. We miss ourselves in memories of ourselves; we ache for what we have not yet known, could not have yet known, but still yet know: words remember; language remembers. Everything that we remember and all that we cannot remember is all a memory of the same silence, the same nothingness, a chain of memories that is tethered to us and dangles from nothing. And so we write. THIS IS WHY I WRITE. And the Gods begat a Son, and a Daughter, and another, and another. The words are already remembered; nothing is ever truly formed or created or learned, only recalled. Memory preexists. And so we wish we wrote, wish we could write, knowing full well that nothing is ever truly written. I/we acknowledge the silence as much as the silence is personified and takes on my/our shape. We are all silence. THIS IS WHY I WRITE. Because the Gods, posing in Charlie Chaplain still-frames, are not the photographers. This is why I write. We are all memories of motion, of noise. We are the memories of each other. I/we remember in silence until all that is left is the silence, the holes and torn edges between what our bodies remember and our minds remember and our hearts remember. Our hearts collectively stutter, then still as breath is measured, accounted for, counted on to convey messages between us and from us. This is why I write.