Close the Lights

July 7, 2010

Transient once again but this time I’m not embarassed to admit I haven’t got a permanent address when people ask me where I live. I wonder why it’s a topic people feel compelled to discuss. Where you from? precedes or follows hot on the hooves of What do you do? as if the answers are definitive or significant.

And yet, it is a bit ridiculous to think I don’t have a home when I’ve been coming back and forth to the Island for over a year and a half now, and everytime I come back there is my strange and spirited family of friends visiting or living in the Art Centre. Welcoming.

And the beach shores the tide the same as ever. The ants haunt the plank of our thighs, we long to walk about but the mainlanders multiply and we play derby with their bodies on the road to ferry us back and forth, back and forth from the real objectified . . .

What we know goes sun split, longs with the days end and begins to gain on matter, and breath. And then we have to dance with stores, with banking bodies for warmth, with toiling over another chapter read or written.

The way we go is slow to roll forward, easy on back. We are so afraid of looking one another in the eye.

You want to tell me that we can’t go on this way. You want to tell me that you will never own a car.

I want to tell you I have already had things that don’t belong inside the body cut out of me.

No one knows how this ship is driven, and the bark is laced with acid, the gulf engulfs oil, the albatrosses bolus is comprised of plastic: not shells. Not bone. Aim and fire, targets ignite.

Close the lights. Fire ants bite in the night but in the morning we run the shore, renew the score, invent a warmer lore and mill the losses to thread we quilt to lilting.

Either I’ve run away to real life, or been delivered from it. Mos def same diff.

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