May 20th, 2009

453

we need microphones and manifolds

blessings and sweetest incense. the trappings of sacred ceremony. "trappings" because they are ideas i become trapped in: smoke and mirrors, what i'm seeing is not really there. smoke and mirrors. ash and dust. the yellow-brown memories smoke stains up the corners with. ash at the ridge of the rim in the incense dish.

i want rows and rows of candles, flickering, flame obscured by the black singe of previous burnings. i want flames leaping behind smoked glass. the torch singer moans. the seats are velvet or a velvet red. mahogany and austere. it's raining, outside, or it should be raining. we bow our heads. here on the marble, we write professions in the water our glasses leave behind: love, lost, diminishing.

the faces that swim up in the not of nothing.

from altar to nightclub, the glass wears the same color. the song's the thing, either way. i am not in the subterranean cool, listening with my eyes closed, either way.

the ends of my fingers are cold and numb, an ice water consideration trailing to silence. i am jumpy and there is tightness in my shoulders. nothing is sure. i am antsy. i don't know what to do with myself: not in the small ways, but in the large ones. in the small ways and the large ones. what do i do? probably, not this.