Sunday, July 4, 2021

Mansard (Attic) Diary

 

I was never given liberty, possessing liberty, but accidentally. I was seldom given love, possessing love, but occasionally. dolls were listening, her mauve comforter held perfumes, her pillows were expensive cotton. she held a quilt, flipped through a diary, landed on a page, and begin to pour into me. I never knew her, by fire in a storm, by possession of a ghost. her hair was wool. her body was bronze. her eyes were torches. the rug was violet. the shag was neat. the apartment was refurbished. a dresser held memories. the window sparkled. each imprint came with violence. it was our last discussion. I chose another. we played too many piccolos. I reached back, losing something, while we argued in silence.

 

like gnats airborne or stomach knots, we make courageous decisions. it becomes familiar: eye contact, chemistry, the need to fly.

 

with rising water, upon a fragile feeling, racing to make solace. so self-possessed. so advanced. I believe the new guys are rich.

 

mossy mornings. pictorial memories. many have life on repeat. a desk aside a wall. ignored court orders. a life made imperfect. daily jury duty, baffled at times, remiss in many areas. gorgeous in days, geranium features, more capable than experts. daring ambition. aired acrobatics. hart harps. at one mistake, when looking back, while evidence is shallow. a man has a thought, he cleaves to perception, he wrestles with his wishes.

 

thumbing a pencil, fiddling weeds, tasting kelp; like furious survivors, or souls made impenetrable, or fastidious creatures; at selfish pangs, needing submission, while disavowing a promise to remain. one needs passive. another needs aggressive. yet, another, needs a conglomerate spirit.

 

as communing softly, a faraway lakeside, we think to those feelings.

 

in a mansard, rummaging antiques, moving boxes. a ladder to memories, an 80’s jumpsuit, a tin can filled with quarters.

 

too much devilry too many shadows too much wishful projection. pure light into darkness we get dimness.

 

too much to remember. too appealing to settle. it’s rare to fall deeply.     

I’d Save The Reader Years

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