Hi. I just had to revisit this. To give a little attention to things...
~smiles~ This reminds me of Christian, you know? And it gives me the same light confusion he does: in places, not quite being able to tell where reality finally crosses into fiction or embellishment... but that’s always a question here, isn’t it?
how you manage to take something like “drip drip” and make it fits is beyond me...
to flay open a few lines:
“an old man -
smooth of face -”
god, beautifully done... you know what I picture when I read this ~soft grin~.
What you say in such small spaces, Chris.
I swear, your images are so STRONG...
pillars of recollection,
his waterproof stole,
and -- my favorite -- the diligent masochism.
(that one makes me shake my head and turn a tart smile)
I SEE when you write... not just visions of one night, but the breaking waves of memories in his head... and I always wonder, what is he gazing back at (with hollowed, weeping eyes: wet with shame, regret, and the furtive residue of his bane)? Are his regrets the conspicuous sins his life has allowed exposure? The rotted, sweet taste of tattered, saccharine memories? Or something deeper, as it always seems... that makes him flinch and stare to the side, anywhere but the questioning gaze of his present head hunter (don‘t plus me)...
Ahh... but answers don’t fall from the heavens... truth doesn’t burst from the skies...
and, honestly, I can barely imagine him one to pray... but perhaps it’s to a god I don’t know... or one that I have worshipped in desperation, but never given name. I think we all have one of those.
But despite this human sacrifice... (and sometimes, one must wonder if it IS...) ... ache is the only true constant companion... a childhood friend, perhaps? One that grew into a final fiend in the last days... but maybe I’m stirring history and assumption, and I’ve always related a little too well...
“at the end, it is only a small piece of his soul
left sacrificed at the altar of pain.
tiny, since so little there remains.”
Oh, so it is a sacrifice... by whom, I speculate (to myself, of course ~sly side-slide of the eyes~)...
but here is the fiction... watch it:
since so little remains...
defeated in desire,
shattered in solitude,
he rises to depart.
Defeat. Hmm. And stones rarely shatter, do they? Not encased in iron... not petrified by constant compression... not to any degree they’d believe (but that’s a tease, and not a scolding).
“flying from the chalice of a nightmare,
he soars over the banks of asperity
to land at the feet of demons,
each a cackling bolt
crashing the din through a storm of tears...”
Oh, and here’s that requisite happy ending you’re so famous for; at least no one died.
But the demons had to attend this little pity-party, didn‘t they?... as did the tears...
You rip me open when you write, you know that? Not anything as clean as a slice... it’s got to be ragged, prolonged...
Perhaps it is masochism that coaxes me to follow into those lettered depths... pretending understanding, linking myself and my experience so close until I can’t discern anything... the way one’s vision blurs when an object is scant inches from their nose... how am I suppose to read without clouding when half resides in my chest, and the rest in grappling conjecture?
Ahh, well... the point is, I read to know, even when it’s not ‘you’ on these lines... because somehow you’re always IN them...
I like this one a lot, pot. I do. It’s sharp in comparison to some of yours... a little more focused and fluid. But maybe that’s the rain today...
Hugs, winter-worn one... I'm always willing to share my umbrella.