na foine ting

Friday, November 11, 2005
We're worlds apart where we could meet

Where the street fold round and the motors start
And the idiot wields the power
Where the chosen hold the highest card
On the field of honour where the ground is hard
So the highest hand is joking wild
And the house soon fold and no one stand
I put my finger on and dialled
The tower, the moon, the gun and
Nine nine nine, singer down
Cloudburst and all around
The first are last, the blessed get wired
The best is yet to come
I put my finger on and fired
Heat-seeking, out of the sun
You can set the controls for the heart or the knees
And the meek'll inherit what they damn well please
Get ahead, go figure, go ahead and pull the trigger
Everything under the gun

I lied when I said that his hands on me didn't scare me. Or if I didn't say that exactly, I painted it as a triumph because I'd survived, I'd kept playing piano the entire time it happened. That time, all the times, literally or metaphorically. I was scared, and I still am. It's dual, though. Part of me flinches, part of me recoils sometimes, part of me thinks the worst thing that could happen would be touch I didn't want, again. But there's an equal part of me dying for it. Wanting it. Yearning for someone to do that to me now. So I can turn around and kill the motherfucking son of a bitch.

I am scared, in the end, of not being charming, brilliant, clever, witty, loving, no vital enough to people that they can disengage and walk away and never come back. That some day you or she or someone who matters will write me a letter, and send it certified mail saying "I can't. Goodbye."

I am terrified that no one's listening. That I will fall down and no one will be there. This has happened several times and I've survived it fine, but it doesn't stop the fear.

When I was little, every day was full of markets and streets and sidewalks and alleys full of children with sores and distended stomachs, who watched me go by and even at five I knew the rift. Sensed it, could feel it. I used to have a dream I was in our old green VW bug driving through the red dust in Ghana. Outside, children ran by the car, begging and pleading. Help for something. Famine. Lost hope. Nuclear war. Loneliness. Poverty. When we stopped, my dad reached over and rolled up the window, so their hands slipped down the glass and their voices were muffled.

I'm frightened of the window. Of its closing, and being caught on either side.

We seem to have a whole mutual inspiration thing going on.

Let's keep it that way?

Yes, please.


Thanks, again.
I will always be there for you, even when you can't see me. All you have to do is reach out, anytime.
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