It is just me wondering about irrigation at this time in the morning. How can this damp ground explain itself?
It must have been E who left an overturned tumbler of wine out
here in this patch. The sun has made it viscous and blood-like. I
pour the drops out onto the cracked land and think of Bible
landscapes full of ritual and miracle and life coming from nothing.
Distant train sounds like locust swarms.
I check on my trees. I pretend they are mine. I have not yet
learned how to surrender my possessive urges. Anagrams. Figs black
and withered in rings around the tree, telling time and age. Some
small, hard and green, waiting for rhythm. Some, very few, purple and
ready - but ultimately lacking heart. I stand in the kitchen and peel
the skin, I tear it open and study the inside for as long as I can
stand, I eat it up, eyes closed, back to all doors, remembering the
sound of cars on the roadside and being invisible and knowing how to
use it. Not about meaning. Never anymore about that – experience.
The first part of the day. Silence, water, silence again.
A wasp and two giant ants delving into the decapitated head of a
silky silver anchovy. Raw on the white plate, twelve fishes,
iridescent, sleek as cars in traffic jam sunshine stretching back for
miles. Metaphors metaphors. Always a crutch, never exact, never
I trap an ant under my mug and immediately let it go. Someone,
perhaps the only person I’ve ever hated, did that once and I swore
I’d never do it. He caught the ant in the dip in the base of his
wine glass and dragged it across the table cloth. The ant died and
smeared all over the white paper covering and the man talked and
talked and wouldn’t shut up.
Strange sleepiness and pain contributing to this arrangement of
thoughts. Still something I can’t understand. Hate hate love and
hate again. Sleeping back to back, gorging on hot skin, thin white
sheets, green lights.
Things dissipate as people wake up. I am still hated and loved.
Other consciousnesses bustle and rise. Mine flips and starts and
stalls. Anchovy head still shiny but eaten from inside. Looks the
same but feels all different. Others eat up your insides. The wasp
curled right into its neck, precise and nasty, knowing the value of
what it had. I feel for scavengers though. There is something in
that. Being lazy though I’ll never really know or try to find out
what. Bed beckons but my thighs are hot and I want eggs. I want a
perfect spreadable yolk and a slow morning fuck.