05 March 2009

Barefoot, Why Give Me a Voice

"We are brought down to the dust;
our bodies cling to the ground."

I woke clutching daisies, hair of some other world. There, I say, stay. Alive.

These are my words, dropping off, leaping off onto the carpet, scattering their language and cursing the nation.

How can I understand. Morning is slipping away.

Last night was a woman, barefoot in Grand Central, sliding her way to God.

The soft padding of her feet, past me.

Holding high heals, swinging notes, hips, dress-coat smiling at the lights.

all this and bells! In my ears, bells!

I want to kiss her feet. Now, it is morning.

Why remember the stitches in the night, before the 11:10 train, which I missed on purpose, why remember? On purpose, missed. Let go. Leave.

I do not want to leave my bed. I do not want to open my hands to you.

The daisies will not stay alive, I ask them to.

Things grow out to wither. If I write this down, I said nothing. The train is leaving.

Woman, take your shoes and run from here. I cannot kiss your feet. There are no daisies. The bells stop ringing.

Go on! I cannot get out of bed because of you. I cannot write but that I hate the day, and your smiling dress. Let go, miss the train.

Why give me a voice?

My words, they missed the train. To run away. I hate the day.

I cannot get out of bed. To tread on words. On the carpet. Your Bells.

I will wear images on my feet. The woman sliding to God. Barefoot. I will wear her. Like a dress-coat smiling to the lights. Imagine. Nothing for our feet to walk on, one day.

I woke clutching daisies, hair of some other world.

Remember, they said. You’re alive. Let go.

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