D I R G E, V

veiled sentences, 4 dancers [hazel, canto, emily, moonbeam]

Hired to play sonatas to tire the insomniac, the pianist falls asleep on the high keys and dreams of daffodils.

The insomniac smokes a cigar in a room of books he’ll never read but finds comforting, all those veiled sentences.

Some narratives split melody and make the audience uncomfortable.

I didn’t want a ticket to this.

Not everything hurts at once, but cascades.

We could love each other, but we are too poor.

The last time we spoke, I told a few lies I don’t remember.

Everything was disconcerting at times, but time doesn’t follow every path lost on the mountain.

Removed from the garbage, the broken cello becomes a hollow drum in the north end where sirens punctuate sketchy poker games.

The foreign coins in our pockets from a country where we may have loved are useless now that we fear conclusions.

Programmed to explicate literary texts, the robot crumbles as if crying before the necessary reboot.

Damn it.

We were so close.

Perhaps it was the missing context, the boat unmoored by the storm.

I can’t sleep because I might fall back into the Book of the Dead, become a plaintive ballet inverted.

There was no avalanche of hurry now that my body was becoming a wing.

We rose anointed until the oil on our foreheads dried.

The next time we speak, I won’t tell you about the frozen rabbit or how I burned twenty-six letters, your favorite scarf.

I might tell you I miss the person you wanted to become before you slip into trees.

The first snow will cover your footsteps before I can find the house.

Once winter settles in, there will be mending—the couch pillows, the warmest coat pockets, the holes in my stomach and brain.

The cello strings may come in handy.

My breath that fills the sealed jar can’t help anyone who loses breath, but it’s there on the mantle just in case.

With the names torn from labels, the different white pills were confused.

Sleep will eventually find the insomniac and sketch pronouncements like harmonies across an ethereal plane.

We’ll skate figure eights under stars subtracted by the emptied moon.

When the pianist finally wakes up, she’ll carry new pages.

Now that you know all this, maybe you’ll come back to tell stories of progression without any disclaimer, emotional cost.

I’ll tell you how I’m learning to abbreviate myself.

I’m twirling tulips.

I’m bathing the woman who sings.

I’m skiing internal ice.

I’m a rusted door in the forest.

I’m diagonal.

I’m counting angles.

I knew something.

I digress.

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4 Responses to D I R G E, V

  1. Myke Todd says:

    There was so much momentum gathered, before the music stopped, and a chair went missing.

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