The rain was falling as I walked alone into the woods. The rain was cold and sharp. The woods were a funnel pulling me into an obsession, a cluttered and primitive orifice yielding only me as its enticement. Did I say something to make you think that the trees grew in a straight line or that the wild flowers didn’t bite? I’ve known this place deep in the back of my self as somewhere I could always go to find you. The fatal pull of the last who meets the first. The last breath as I pull my tongue out of your throat. And I’m not some tortured writer attached to a product or a stance. I sit upon the wet dirty earth staring at an open hole and I write letters to the ghosts that watch me and who think that I don’t know them already. I pretend to guess where they might be headed or what they might want from me, but I always knew you like the back of my mirror. The other side would show your face but the back is just black with promise of who you might be. Whoever I am- is what I mean -and the woods have a bottomless pond that I go to when I’m missing you- and I sink to the bottom of the world thinking of the words to say so that I can float back up and be the first to call the open sun back home…the only problem is that the murky gesture of something that might be rising always gets in the way and makes us want more than we have. I thought you might be the ghost who my hand wouldn’t go through. I can’t touch you…because you’re just a misty haze inside my rabid mind stream and I was looking for the leak and only found the hole. So I’m rushing into the woods-moving unalarmed- because I have nobody else- no other arm, no more words to help ease the pain of my disappearance -only a limp and a lie as I stumble forward groping the musky floor for your face.
Don’t you see me at all yet? I’ve been skirting the outline of the summary of how blood meets sky just for you- what needles to use to make fresh marks – what tracks to follow – what holes to dig- but you never left to do any of it – you just remained a shadow -staring at a trace of where I used to be. And there aren’t anymore blue eyes, only dried out sockets empty of your watery gaze- and so I keep my focus upon the words I never used, the letters I let fall to the ground in a hint of a trail just behind me. I meant to say more but never knew how. Ghosts don’t speak for themselves – they’re just made up words held in a mouth that no longer kisses or prays. The eating mouth of my words that are too hard to swallow…so you dangle as swinging limbs from a tree as I come looking for you- and I never saw you above me -watching me from the branches of her claws. Roots end in claws -just like the first becomes the last.
I was circling before I came here. Looking for a place to land. To be meaningful beneath the clouds. To not see and yet to keep looking. And that’s what this is, and we’re slicing ourselves either up or open. Does it even matter that our bodies were not real and never touched at all? Well I think it matters and that’s why I’m here in the woods headed toward your hollow…my open arms reaching up from the mound to embrace you forever in autumn’s bright death.
Is there a seeker and something to search for…I don’t think there is. Are we cursed as the haven we commenced from…I don’t think the romance would leave us bound. I think the woods howl to the haunted to enter the dusk like a vulture would enter the dawn. You do belong here no matter what they say…and our shells are given to each other so that someone might echo through us and make us feel alive again. We would do anything to be real, to be touched, to be heard. We would do anything to let love into the brutal hunt of the circling fog bodies. We would write and cut and kill the water to get inside just one more time. We would call the woods a fatal attraction and then bring her flowers on the side. We would say he was a ghost and then suck his head to death.
We would be me –
with nothing left but slivers of mirror beneath my feet- wandering -aimless- bloody footprints all alone upon the widow earth looking for a deeper you with every worded step. And even though I know you don’t see me and you can’t hear me I still hand you the knife and say, “Go”
We only have this defeating love. Make me go away. We only have the gasp of a gripping God. We only have the empty bone of gone.
Gone Gone Gone
are you with me or not?