I am clean. God’s
child of the yohor. Dancing with the
devil in an always newborn nomadicism.
A rhythmic changing of the concepts partner dancing on the floor… the
lines were trembling in my solitude as I brushed my hair through a dream. Stood swaying in the dizzy breezes of my
exhaustion.
And there she was.
Drawing the lines out of a Siberian memory. An elegant air draping the animal corpses of the hunt for her
love as trophies of her wicked predation.
Or as stains of her guilt if her mood was dark, those bloody spots that
just wouldn’t come out of her garments.
Those tortured faces of little deaths that just wouldn’t lay to rest and
just kept on, silently caroling their final contortions.
She’d lived enough to tell, she thought, what was hidden in
the tempered manners, what was lurking in the groping expression… searching for
the lines that might without a digital trace breathe of Russia and silence the
public air, leave it echoing of passion, barely even hollow, a sweet kill of
life’s distaste for all things terrible and picturesque…
An innocent wonder… drawing out my lines that I haven’t
lived enough to feign a jade opinion… that we’ve never lived enough to claim as
sweet a kill as the corpses of our aging might beckon to wear in fur and posh
to celebrate, hanging from the walls we’re like to die within… the fading of
our innocence, the onset of our reason… if we’ve never lived enough, then there
is nothing left to hide.
And so the shadows of children inquired unto the aging ghosts,
in their glum fantasies of princesses and Russian palaces, dancing with their
pelts and summoning the animal spirits in a line of nomadic hush that huddled a
room of stares and chattering retreat into the sheath of mystery… what is so
delicate as to wear thy terrors with grace? … ’las, what is so elegant?
The eastern front was slain and it was back to the west for
her, for me. Reasonably distinct.
Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com
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