Where have you been!? Where the fuck did you go? Was that all you had? You spin & spin, you ask yourself as yourself, out loud in the car, in the shower, whisper it in bed. I don't know whats happened, you say, all of yourselfs agree. We are very quiet now. You have been making cuts and we don't mean the bloody kind. You have let go of your sounds to love, a giant offering. Do you mourn for it? You no longer kiss us and words and time get lonely too, dear.
But we can do this, just start at any beginning,
Start at that beginning.
You know the one.
Go, for christs sake, fill up the giant black garbage bags and run. There, start here.
Its only the memories that bite but we know how you love your scars. Start on the cities concrete streets of your very minuscule existence, just begin, you hummingbird. Wake up at that subway station that is outside and still under-ground (where lost girls fall and things rumble forever) Wait for your train. Anoint your expression with your involuntary distracted-by-thought look. Walk with yourself across the platform. Find the edge, apple blossom, where you are not permitted to walk or stand. It is a grime-browning yellow and its surface is made up of thick round bumps. Walk on that ledge, press your feet down on the little globes and think about the things you think about love. Not home, darling: love.
Home is just some slow condensation. it's underground and outside. I can't tell you how dark and deep it goes because no one knows, not really. So do not think on it, dreamer, please, push all your girl-weight down on your feet & step into the jutting yellow earths under them. We are awake and we are dreaming of you. You have no past or present, you are only a roamer, it's simple. In this city we are all native voyeurs and we are all alive. Even keeping very still in this warm womb you remain in fast transit and camouflaged. Peek over, seeker, keep watch for the shining silver beginning tip in the dark sheltered tunnel. Two wide-eyed ivoried lights will appear first. When the train swells forward, breathe hard the hot moving air its silver body pushes towards you. The train will stop. Hear a once-rung bell and an airy pause, a mechanical swish. Your heart maybe flutters the way it would when you'd walk out onto a stage. Faceless and not human but loud: "stand clear of the closing doors, please." Walk inside.
Sit in your new neatly ordered yellow and orange chaired world. Fresh but homesick smells will find you, like old laundromats or bookstores. Foreign faces surround you, belonging to lives that are unknown and are not yours but you make their stories up in your head anyway. Take this train to places. Let it stop at its stops but mostly just tuck up into your brains. Wait to hear nothing. No one can touch you when you're moving this fast.
No one can say a word so don't ever stop going.
You know what they say about hummingbirds.
Things looked so perfect outside train windows, right where they belonged, fast & far away. You used to take your notebook to write and the faster you'd formulate with your scratchy pens the more you felt watched and yet you'd go on, kitten, looking for that you-tailored noise. Find them now, recall it and hold it in your head, earth and all. So many years with your tiny wrists, your forever unclean knees and loaded eyes. That noise you fell in love with in your mind when the world showed you all its disfigured truths.
You were so loud.
Lusty poems that would deafen and peal, Cusses on the high school bathroom stalls all about you, terrible, loud things, ear-splitting louds, little kids sneakers squeaking wild and wicked on a church floor. You wore makeup on your eyes that smeared just so. You were the patron saint of unremovable sadnesses. The portrait of chaos, the graffitied-stall-headliner.
Are you there?
Are you there yet?
You would hush up your heart and it would come whimpering out in public and all your so-called-friends would call you 'psycho' and you'd cry. Listen. This is a story of a girl thats almost woman, halfway human, mostly ghostly, ferociously no ones. Just a creature of that wooded borough with a hungry little heart. You would cry so hard back then, never spoke up or pushed too hard. You'd sip your vodka or drink it fast and watch things take place on the earth you refused to call mother. You'd walk home alone when you could. slow and sweet orange-street-lit-city paces to your house. You'd sit at your giant, amber desk and make lists, put on radiohead & smoke joints outside the fire-escape window. The lists you'd write weren't the usual kind. These didn't want to be lists at all, but wanted instead to be monuments to the things that everyone really thinks about when they make their own. Your grocery list was waterlogged and wheezing, rhythms of a mind parade with marching band drummer fingers, whispered wants and peoples heart shaped noises. Your oversized, white bed was a musical flavor. High and in tune, in that room alone but with everyone there you'd stay up and write down the usually quieted uproars. You were no seeker but a finder and giver of the weird unconscious places of uncommon safety and silence people look for in sleep.
Now, you ripe earth-girl , put the sound in your head, love-maker.
Find whats not bare and get it fucking naked
touch softly the undressed and leafless, open and exposed.
Unplug it all and drown, darling.
Watch out your train windows and come home.