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25 April 2011

Outing

Fall faster, while away trills of garbage on hanging wings of stomped out born-agains. I am not commanding anyone to do anything, and by that method it compels. Truncated dreams survive because of our misguided compassion: think about that three-legged dog you saw or had or heard or heard of. Don’t we all like the branching options of collective life?

My speech’s reaches (stupid-ignore that, excuse it) extend me like the lines that dead-end into screens and smiles…it feels more right to have proof of life like this. If I can obliterate more of the blankness I might even drop a few. And the branches mingle. Options pair and fly away for the day of life they are allotted. We pare them. And the party is wonderful. Sure I can’t taste anything, but that’s a good thing. No, really, it’s a good good thing. I am leaving the party. I am walking out.

This exercise is not about adding. It is an amputation of null. I am putting memory out of its misery, putting down the dog. Where I am walking three legs can’t follow. I am setting out in a straight line. Eventually I will meet an alternate form of myself. He will have heard or heard of the call to fall, but his nails will be less gnawed, and his eyes will be lustrous and assured.

All of the pre-packaging will disintegrate when we see each other. He’ll appear with it, I will appear of it, and both of us will have to avert our eyes. Oops and oh no! Who was supposed to bring the message? Momentum oozes through the pores of blame, and we’re back to those churlish looks that we reserve for myself. Being me, being this version of me, on this side of the hypothetical, I imagine that he’d be the one to figure it out first and stop the bleeding dye circles and perpetuity.

“It’s all right to be more of yourself. We have plenty.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“That’s not my job.”

“Says who? I beg to differ.”

“That’s your problem, A#1: stop begging.”

“I thought I’d be kinder to myself than this. What happened to grace?”

“Don’t say her name. Don’t pretend that you know her. Annoying.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“…me too.”

Will he hold me after this? Probably. That doesn’t extinguish the fireline back to the old ways. It’s not overreaching to say that sadness was the first story. It’s the hardest to hold back, and always wants to be at the front. It’s pushy that way.

The other me is not pushy. He yields to lesser forces thinking it the work of his immeasurable sway. When we depart I say this, and the lapping of water.

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