Un niveau d’indentation (in English)

     Those missing lights reminded me of Florida.
Gushing the softest, most grey incandescence;
I could not tell what was real and what was
really a dream. The whole world was talking to
me and I could hardly speak sweetly—must have
been Calypso calling me to bed with that minuscule
layer of sweat that is barely noticeable, barely
uncomfortable but fitting.

     I walked in the middle of the street
to say hello, good evening, to the brazen
cars running by as if to make the last
train home. Might all the sidewalks have
cracks in them like these I might know my
whole family lineage by now. Perverted
enough to distract me from missing dead-
lines; also prophetic in some way, as if
to tell me about my six future children
and the way I would die. The syntax was
weird enough on top of the nuances whispering
my name and to rest myself ...
but who would I listen to?
                          The unforgiving heat?

     I wanted to molt out of my own skin.
I know a friend who has tongs, so why not
peel off these eyelids that make me blind
in so many moments of the days of the week?

     Those thoughts were real.

     And then the real rush floods in; could
a locked door seize the torrent? I really
did not know, nor did I care. But I knew that
I would have been closer to dying than lying awake
in my bed superfluously conscious and sober
enough to get lost in my head.  A coming
up that took two months in the making and
I was nodding my head at my desk reading
'Auguries of Innocence.' How jarring to my
ego ... but I kept looking up for these words.

     The mood was sympathetic to the great
cause of the poem, not the writer. The head
typed through the fingers onto a type that
only wrote murder stories and poems about
the fear and sadness that I had been falling

     If only I had seen the incandescent
light ages ago then, perhaps, I would not
find myself behind that looked door. The
key was here in the room next to me. And
maybe it would click the pins in place and
maybe I threw mine out of stupid anger and
stole someone else's. But nevertheless,
when novels and textbooks are your only
friends, you may find yourself paler and
hugging yourself trying to be that girl
who would hug you.

     Now I am leaving it all in boxes
behind and killing time with Marlboro
Lights. Just waiting with a crucified
or perhaps a purely catatonic face;
                        stone-like anyways.

     My mind became very jaded to sit
and hear about wanna-be dropouts. I
always helped them anyhow. Robyn made
me realize that I am the infinitely
deep drinking well with dancing fish;
and I want you to impose everything
onto me so I can understand better
and write you down in the journal of
                                     my past lives.


     I do not know what it is about warm
weather but then again does Florida even
care? Do my limbs want to move again or am
I supposed to be the sepulcher at the blue-
hour just to be remembered for a short two
hours while mom is driving home to watch
            the Bulls and Kim.


     All I ever got were some clues and
hues that fed ma tête for a while in the
circumstance I would have blindly led myself.

     I think I thought, for sure, what they
all have felt: Rick, K, and Nick. Although,
it had been for different reasons that I would
never pry open until it were the Christmas
Morning 'go' that unwraps disappointment.
Southtown used to be the spot for stoned teens,
then Elijah's and most are just smoking pot
                              (or maybe not).

     And while walking on Sheridan, I wanted
to see mon père here and watch him burn a
cigarette. But he would never have come
close enough for me, except for when he'd
go on holiday and I think I have finally found
respect for them, but it is reckless kissing
for my father. He was about one hundred feet
away, one hundred feet to looking at them all.

     And then on the other front, I begged
for a holy angel to cast his judgement
on everybody and, utmost, their safety.
I am waiting for the real brilliance to
vanquish the black tears of middle America.

     I've always wiped my tears but I am
sick of it and sick of illness and the illest.

Pas plus
4 Responses to “Un niveau d’indentation (in English)”
  1. RMpaton says:

    I love the way you write. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a poem like that from the Beat generation – the greatest modern poets. Hope you keep writing and post more.

  2. joseasanoj says:

    Good Post…
    Sanoj Jose (Author, My Day Out With An Angel)

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