Pat Gunn (dachte) wrote,
Pat Gunn


Beware happy artists, for if they don't have enough angst in their ownlives to fill their palette, they'll dip their brush in yours, and peoplewill see you in their works. An artist in need, perhaps more than aphilosopher, is a great hater of secrets, for they fill their emotionalreserves without being safe for use. Nature's clean is not your clean..twin mountains, with a low valley between. Who would think to interviewa cat as a character witness? A row of houses, facing the road, empty mountainson both sides.. In the realm of hades, your fate is to walk the mountainsalone, seeing the strip of Elysium, the joys of everyday life, the painsof everyday life, the greater and the lesser.. the first vacation together,the mutual hunger, the comforting each other, the child, old age.. thecherished memories.. and the fickle playing with hearts, the cheating, thepainful, angry conversations, the lust free of commitment, in spite ofcommitment.. none of this is yours. Elysium is existence, not paradise.It was evident from the day I set eyes on you, your eyes were neverfor this place.. the waves of distant, lonely beaches echoed in yourears, the reflections of rain and lightning in the highlands in your eyes..Your body has never moved, to my eyes, and yet each successive moment yougrow older. What's left, in this palette, to paint with? My paint hasbeen drying a bit too quickly recently, I've been forced to make substitutions.Look, a new color... autoschadenfreude... just one of a set of the strangeshades I've learned to paint. I reach up, and grab a strand of wind.I shouldn't be able to do that, I think. I attach a data recorder to it,folding it up inside the pocket of air, and release it. Look at yourwatch... we've used about a third of the break, and have nothing to showfor it. Might as well start giving up now -- we're going to be late..I remember your face this time, momentarily release the ghosts to walkbeside me, hold my hand as I walk in the dark. I can't bear to look at yourface -- but I gently stroke the back of your hand with my thumb. We laugh,and repeat the same conversations, I feel safe, because I know the plot,but then, eyes suddenly serious, you turn to me, step right in front of me,and stop my walking. A flash, scene change, another lonely bike ride, inColumbus, the furniture store is well-lit, resembles a home, at this latehour, and while the body went on, the mind tarried for a bit. You're sittingin the store, behind the glass, and you look at me.. This is not my memory.Why am I here? Your other sides appear next to you, and you give a look ofsad regret, as you wave to an empty chair next to me. I move up to the glass,not believing it to part for me, and place my hands on it. You sit, motionless,and I know what is to be done. Hands drop, eyes close, I walk forward, glassfalling around me. An alarm goes on, as I sit on the chair, your bodieswincing in thought. You open your mouth, and a purple swirl comes out. Igently cup it to myself, and the sirens continue. I need to go. I never knewif you said all you needed to say, but I cannot stay. I look at your questioningeyes, your sad face, one last time, and stand up, still hugging what you havegiven me as tight as can be. A step, outside the store, a nod, the glassflies from the ground back into a solid barrier between us. A sigh, I see myselfapproaching on the bike, an odd loop, and after the touch, a final wave toyou, back to the walk, my hand now entwined around the flowing wind, and it'sover. The tension didn't work out very well.. you have the body without thesoul, and I have the soul without the body.

Tags: poetry

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