It turns out execution is very blue in shape. And maybe a line of
gold if you get there safely. My execution was not a very long one.
It was quick and divine the way I imagine moon-dust to feel slipping
through my fingers. My execution had wit and charm—enchantment.
She was armed with freckles that didn’t matter to her, and lips she
didn’t care for. I told her every chance I had that they were spectacular.
Her name was Ellie. She had auburn hair and limbs long enough to
fawn over and eyes to skip into, especially when she was happiest (they
seemed to open up then, like I had my very own closet to jump into
when I got too scared). I loved everything about her. She became my
muse—I wanted her to star in all of my films.
One day I talked about how I needed her to point at the camera
and stare straight into it because I knew it would kill me
every single time—and I liked the feeling of being killed. The warmth,
the numb sensation, the blank page. The journey back. She agreed that
she would and I said it would be filmed in a meadow somewhere off
a highway where we would make love and maybe get married barefoot,
in whatever clothes we had on that day. We laughed about that for quite
a while. Then she got really excited and said I just gave her the best idea.
“What! What is it?” I asked eagerly. “I want to write you open,” she said.
And I fell in love with her like have so many times before. How could
she say something so perfect? I thought.
I thought that maybe I could love a poet for all my life.
Perhaps we could write books together without killing
each other on the way. I finally answered her and said
“I want to be the one to close you.”
She jumped into my arms until morning.
She was the first one to tell me that I am easy to tell things to—or
at least the first person I believed when they said it. Because I am easy
to tell things to. I like secrets enough not to get rid of them. I like pacts
and clandestine contracts. But mostly I like signatures—the deliberate
gibberish, the longing ink, the start and the finish. I think it’s easy to
see your future when you are in love but it’s hard enough to agree
with your past. Somehow I get into my mind and have a conversation
with myself, I think “Pass the order form, I’m gonna get a pen with an
erasure, blue if that’s okay.” I come back to form. I’m on my patio again.
The birds are not. I am by myself. Ellie is long gone. She told me
that she is not gay. But I was there when she kissed me—I will never
understand nor will I forgive her. But I need her. I need her in my life.
I want to disappear so I allow myself. I think of the birds. I figure they’re
out there singing in b minor, that way they could modulate into d major
without any problems. Then I am cut off mid day-dream and enter another
dream. A girl I’ve never seen before says, “It’s hard enough to dream in color.”
I think this must be my mind again, trying to get my mind off of my broken heart.
But this girl has a point and I wanted to think about it. For a long time. I wanted
to sleep on it. So I walk towards my room ruminating on the subject. I am reminded
of a girl I once talked to who said she only dreamt in black and white, and I thought
it the strangest thing I’ve ever heard of. Then I
started to doubt how I dreamt. I could not remember if I dreamt in color or not and
could not understand why I even cared.
Did it mean something if you didn’t dream in color?
Before I sleep I felt like writing, so I get my journal out and scrape some
It was on the mezzanine
where we saw day
tame the night.
The stage held our eyes
in separate hands
methodical in nature.
Oxymoron we Lust
stitched into microfilm
speaking of the light
and how it loved us.