Sunday, June 17, 2012


Magpie #121

The letters and the faces,
they line up among the places
where I placed them on my brown desk many moons ago
Now there lies but on face
and scattered letters calling in chase
for him to come back home
And the bill of rights
and the bill of times
the bill of electricity lays too
And I would say I don't know what to do
here without you
But I do, in fact, know what to do
I just don't know what I
want to do
about you.
Should I send the letter that lays in the open?
The one that lays, stark and naked, straight forward as hell and blunt?
Should I sent the letter that resides completely next to it?
The one that rests, casually but firmly, with belief that we can work this out?
Should I sent the letter that accuses and points the fingers of blame?
The one that could definitely be supported without a doubt, but that I might feel bad about or unreasonably harsh for sending?
Should I send the letter that begs for him to return?
The one that weeps and cries for his return and ultimately fears that he never will and will inexplicably, and unknown to me, throw away?
Or should I send the letter of each other letter, mentioned and not?
The one buried beneath all else: containing my feelings, my thoughts, my aches and pains, my hopes and desires, and all else?
I sit and wonder and others around me question my wondering.
They question why I wonder
instead of going straight on and forward, as they say, and getting rid of the problem
they question my reasons for sticking to him and not trying to find someone else,
maybe someone better,
because maybe I wouldn't have to look that far or hard,
and maybe I know that.
This letter, all-knowing of everything I know to be true in my head and omniscient of all that lies in my heart, would be the perfect letter in the perfect setting
if only I could find it, in all its perfectness, underneath this pile-up of absolutely everything in my head.
since you been gone.

And then, the face stays--
just forehead and eyes and upper nose or nostrils
but, nevertheless, directly half-and-half of my viewpoint.
I see it
but not the whole thing
as in, not the whole picture
I simply, inexplicably cannot see, nor imagine, the whole picture although I'm pretty sure I know what it looks
at least kind of
 like you
 being gone
 and all
 and fallen off the face of the earth... except not really...
 I just don't know.
And I can't decide or determine whether the face watches with solemn passivity
or looks on as I make a decision
or counts the seconds until I come to the final conclusion
or sees my brain turn and wind up
or senses my heart back down and step up, steadily or not so much, like the constant rolls of thunder or waves in the sea
or reminisces about its own memories, other, more interesting things it has witnessed and completely ignores me
or counsels my spirit with that knowing look
or blankly stares for it so happens to be inanimate
Does being inanimate mean anything to a mask?
If not, why does it matter?
And if not, what could "being inanimate" keep the mask from doing?
Why is it even a mask now?
It's just a face
And it watches carefully, or not.
And it watches unknowingly, or the opposite.
And it watches as I make my decision
and reach for a letter
buried beneath.

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