June 23, 2010

Nostalgia: But He is Just a Cat.


He sits alone in the wet grass as i listen to rain dripping from trees and rooftops.
"Where should i go from here?" he asks looking back at me.
i light my cigarette.
"Wherever you want to" i say through a puff of exhaled smoke.
Just like that he's gone into the black shadow that he is.

Inside they are trying to speak to the dead.
"Is anyone here?" one says.
They quietly wait for a reply.
"You're spelling nothing," is what we always tell them.
"Where is Jak?"

Here, it smells like blueberries and blue wild flowers,
Turkish Carnation incense.
All i can hear is the electric powered clock and the oracle tracing letters onto the board.
"You speak forever in gibberish, moving glasses with their hands," i think.

"Remember when you used to take me downstairs and thought that i was thinking nothing,
remember?" i ask him.
"Yeah, i thought you never cared.
i thought there was nothing inside that little messy skull of yours,
tracing daylight covered trees onto the window of my back door with your fingers.
i remember."
He holds onto me again,
moving the hair from my face.
"i like being able to see the color of your eyes," he tells me.
"i never noticed how they look.
How it's like the place where flowers would grow,
Or deep beneath the grass and roots of trees,
The place covered in limestone and mosses.
When i think about it,
i can see your eyes blossoming."
He kisses my face and watches me sleeping on his couch,
Covered in Wizard of Oz and Pink Floyd lights.

"Do you remember the way the voice sounded?" He asks me in his half-sleep.
"They were like the voices of the trees.
i remember,
i could see constellations and places that aren't on this planet.
Once i painted his picture.
The Stars in his Veins, i called it."

She stood outside motionless in the middle of the street light and pouring rain.
"Is anyone here?" She whispered.
"Where have you gone?"

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