Time for another incarnation of--
me.I'm not sure what this one will be, but I think I am ready to wear a new version of the old
hat.
I was so low last month that my chin was scraping along the rocks of rock bottom.
But sometimes you have to die to be born again, so here I am.
Alive.
Ready.
And still wondering who I'll be tomorrow,
still wondering why I deserve such luck.
I am reading a book...
and I find myself so caught up in it,
that it's like I'm living it.
It's an autobiography.
As I drove through the winter-pretending-to-be-spring sunshine today, the sky a softer blue than usual, and the mountains still stark white in their sharpness, here is what I said to its author:
What an odd sensation to be immersed in your life, so different from mine that night and day look like clones.
I feel like I am wrapped in a silk sheet of you, the sandpaper of your soul spiralling around my own, leaving marks like asphault on knees.
Your life is now dancing across me the way that your music always has.
You sexy, poet of the flesh, Anthony Kiedis!
I love the way you love.
I want your dreams in white powder to float up my nose and charge through my veins.
As I maneuver the passages of this monstrous castle of words,
some of them are not yours.
They stand out like white hot flames in a black night.
Editors.
Your story flows and surges,
but words sporadically appear that feel as though they are badly dubbed
(not trite substitutions like "keyhole" for "asshole")
but it is as if we sit in a shadowy bar,
smoke settling in layers above us
(indoor clouds)
and your mouth is still moving, but your voice falls silent and in its place some Poindexter or Hippie or Editor fills the silence with a voice too eager, too careful.
I love your book, Anthony Kiedis,
you gorgeous creature,
you marveled-at creation,
you dazzling creator!
You are an imperfect god,
a fallen angel,
a man.
Scar Tissue.
We've all got some. |
posted by Bored Housewife at
12:49 PM
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