Beach party

 

she pulled me into the corner whispering behind the counter

stacked with boxes of Tylenol

the cancer is back she said

this time it’s in my bones

it doesn’t want the other breast

now it wants my bones

they give me three years

more - at the most

it’s gonna be one big fucking beach party

she shifted her weight from one foot to the other

trying to find balance

looking at a spot somewhere over my left shoulder

a fly buzzed in the captured window heat

now she knows about knowing

and not knowing

I could see the panic flooding her eyes

the sweet bitter taste of a new and different freedom

so close to the cool green other side

Every one had decreased over the course of time

Every one had decreased over the course of time
Even the stairs were like madmen stumbling through the hallway.
The walls of the room became shorter, his responses to people contrite.
Consequently he grew abject, quite morose, evading
His own image reflected in store windows,
No, even the probability of his own distribution began to slip out of time.
In practice he passed all of his own tests.
It became a matter of practical concern
Whether he would take care of it once and for all
Was anyone’s guess.

He was obliged to pass once again, this action weighing upon him
Like all the others that he carried in a sack inside his heart
Oh, he didn’t like using that word, he would rather be silent reinventing
The persona of a young man with inner strength,
No, rather than that, an increase or decrease in the past
That he kept living through unseen
Moving about like the rings of an actual transgression.
The coherence occurred slightly after this, in all probability
The distribution remained in the same room
Between the brain importance, and the lie- to-himself,
Isolated from his soft, young desires like a comatose cat.

No complaints.
No blame.

And in whose debt would this too weight upon him.
To evaluate the new roof of his inner strength, the barrier of this emptiness,
The young man had the presence of mind to bring these events to a close
Consequently, he was more like a death by the end of it
Calling out to passersby with the finesse of an evaporating celebrity.
He was sick; it was true, all this indicating the presence of an active desire
For something outside of himself, something relevant to his obligation
Something that would be a higher percentage
This of course was not to be, the dark sky with the absence of any sun
Told him this. The fog that swirled and coddled his feet and sealed this page
Told him this.
Bound by this agreement he knew any further action would be irrelevant.

These gods knew better than this too, and had the sense not to tempt.

The frail and singular fortress  and there where we carried him, yes that was the part of it, the only part of it we could actually say for sure, and put his feet about him, his arms and hands arranged, that upon the air of one who knew this and bore the likeness of us where we contain the cellular of just having been there and this is how we bore the air again through bands of wet flesh, sparks, or simply by just being there as living serpent, younger, and even still as serpent, this deception, this here and there, assisted by a twist and an ocular likeness, calling him the living serpent this, of stars, sparks, dragging him in to call here and there, thin yellow affairs, distant pulling of tide, to hide what should be a resemblance to him, fixed and stoic, considered remarkable, this, of course, of course, must be before the fire that could on his table or flesh hung younger and again for him with considerable resemblance about the curve of your eyeball, the air of one who had been in this world, one who would fuse sand particles like heavy bands of karma, his own personal stuff, perhaps more than the last time fixed upon the inside curve of the darker shadows, the night, were it possible to father such a son and him, of darker shadows here and there, simply clad as fire, yellow letters in stillness, in resemblance with bits of fire, sky on the inside, on the resemblance to him, being through himself as living serpent yes, living in the black sky, the stars aghast at the here and there. and yet, the sand, his affairs, the gentle responding curve of his eyeball had all been seen as well and also where the smoke must have been as signs of life about him that could provide him that air of these two and the fire, the night, the writing of thin yellow lines, the expression even then younger, and nearly as could be discerned a deception, assisted by speaking once again one for the other. he was not breathing. but the thing about light, the part of it as expression, the part of it that makes what is, is, this here and there, this part of him, the part he couldn’t help but see as resemblance, having been an ocular deception, the likeness of even, yes even, the living serpent, this, who would not have had expression other than bits of this here and there, this, of course, was not about to be discerned; this of course, must have been part of his affairs that would call for the last of his own personal stuff, seen as remarkable as were his particles, the sparks, even the hearts of unseen people making it possible for him with considerable resemblance to have discerned the deception still that night, curiously, it was remarkable to him that by opening this door, he would never be the same, his life, his world, the things he held most dear to his heart, this here and there could be no longer and would call to him loudly at first, then fainter, and then fainter still from the earth, time, this spot, endlessly malleable, irreversibly benign what became in that instant the landscape of his resemblance, the arena that held his words, the frail and singular fortress of the dissolving self without speaking, without a fixed upon course, without reason or pattern of thought, he realized he would forever carry the same rank and considerable bearing made possible that night by such formidable deception the great black snake, just being there, not responding, the ache, the dull useless throbbing, just being the here and there of it, even just being the solitary traveler through it all.

 

© Peter Ciccariello