Jesse S. Mitchell
Let me trust the savages, the fierce-feral, the raw. The unsmothered and uncrushed under all the asphyxiating air, the upright-bloody beneath the sheer weight/pressure of undying atmosphere, the rocks and bits and history accumulated. The tall stacks teetering in the corners. Let me trust our teeth and claws and our bated breath. Let me trust whatever left, the beasts, all the living things. Those who lash out quickly, some times violently, move appendages wildly, thick bold arms flung out high and wide like stalks of cascading field-flame, flicker and smoke and smolder and broad shoulders and twice as fast. Silhouettes steady on bruised light of sunset horizons, something like white phosphorous etched against the sky, engraved, burns through the blood.
Got ‘the looking back so far, I can see end of the world blues’
A happy ending still, like gasoline, dredged deep from the earth, highly refined, burnin’ off all the air from out the atmosphere. Ignite.
Got our attention though.
Like a fuzz. A blur. A shattered piece of glass, dangling there like the spider web all covered over with dew in the high corner of the rickety wood awning out front the cinema building on Water St.
A murmur, adding up quickly. From soft to brutal.
Sahara desert, last bus out-of-town, Oaxaca, William Faulkner, all of it…
Mao Zedong, the words fall from my tongue. Over those shoebox mountains we will sail, two colors blending, two colors bending to the enter the eye.
That ol’ black soul will make you crazy.
My God! I will save your life if you will save mine. Here take hold of my hand.
I’m going to lie down here on the floor. I am going to lie down here and rest. Just for a while.
Let me worry about you.
Let me be concerned.
Let me lose sleep
Let me go all the way around your edges, let me surround you but not see back in, no reflections.
Let me wait up nights for you, sitting in the window, blinds up, bathed in the yellow shaded fluorescent light from the all-night gas station.
Rocks falling off of rocks. Steel rotting off of steel. Bridges crashing down. Buildings like the petit-bourgeois. Crumbling. Nothing lasts.
And this is why I worry.
Consumed by it.
The woman at the corner has a photograph of Ezra Pound in her handbag (Money and how it got that way).
I saw it as we both were waiting for the same bus.
Not a part of anything, not ripped from a book, not a tattered orphaned page of periodical
A little yellowed aged square with crumpled wrinkled edges, bend back crooks (alarm clock)
Staring up into the light from the cavernous vacuous dark.
More curious still, is that if I had the opportunity or the inclination to rob
It is the only thing I would take from her.
If you think about me at all, think about me at night
Darkest part of the day.
If you think about me at all, think about me in winter
Coldest time of the year.
Abces et entraves
Pools of molten lava
Ian Curtis monotone
Running through my head.
This is what I am reduced to, this is where my time has led.
I am memory power
A pile of books
A thick bright line
Of runny paint
Of neon light
Of sun and moon shining bright
Of broken stems
Pistils threatening to fall