The other night lying awake, after
watching Twin Peaks, & the scene
where Bob climbs & his silent laughter
moves with him to fill the screen;
I was terrified. I held my love obscenely
close to rid the ridiculous image. Only
way I could fare was to people Lynch's lonely
world with the plastic and strange
lustiness of Tazs Angels. Annabelle, all
ass & hair, and Leena with her deranged
& silken black locks, the pictures she enthralled
us with; her morning head, all messy. At the mall
I imagine they would strut proudly and click
their heels past Bob's girl grubbing licks,
& I only hope that Agent Cooper should
swallow his coffee with great wonder,
what with them swishing past him & his wood
detective nose smelling the favors thundered
at the clubs they frequent. Their dances & drinks plunder
the crowd as they - call girls throned & loaned -
stuff their purses with the eye-fucker men, these drones
who mechanically leave after the deed.
In every video the house is empty of decoration
or personality markers, the walls are free
of paintings, the rooms bereft of furniture, or proclamation
of lives spent in normality. These girls are the translation
of every rap video I've seen, into breathing, caramel dolls.
I doubt in this small town if they could be lulled
into murderous labyrinths, into a train car,
or outside of their house at all. The log lady
I'm sure lives in their cupboard, scarring
her hands from stroking her wooden friend, the shady
backyard her night-time confession room. Ruby
is at her mercy, & Kinky watching with her drink.
"Spiritual confessions of three hoes", log lady thinks
none of this is real, or to last. How many
images must we scroll past to find the real
story of you, this murderer, or you, this twenty
year old hooker, or myself, this observer, feeling
weaker by the moment. If I could cradle this teal
cup that is Cecil Baldwin's voice. If I could read
your story without makeup or knife, if I could feed
myself without your hands. Many lights,
malevolent and otherwise, carve me up at night.
i really just wanted to tell you how much i liked this
ReplyDeleteand then i wrote something silly about it and posted it above this.
Everything before "log lady thinks none of this is real.." is recognition of twigs and leaves and pebbles in places i've heard of.
"how many images must me scroll past.." is the clearing where the old dusty farmhouse in which i grew up, blooms into view. And when you say "If I could cradle this teal cup that is Cecil Baldwin's voice", I am as close as i can get to the house while still being able to fit it's entire frame in my periphery. And when you say "carve me up at night." I am sitting at the kitchen table with just one warm blue light shining, and sitting in an identical spiny wooden kitchen chair, is a dark unidentified figure cradling my head on it's chest.
i care about something.
but i'm not sure what.
illusion, i suppose.
(my attempt to say that i care about your poem (which i do))
"an identical spiny wooden kitchen chair, is a dark unidentified figure cradling my head on its chest" this sentence is haunting me right now
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