It feels unnatural to speak through the wall, on a river of ink.
But what of it? Coffee downed, the wall serves its purpose—to keep separate heart and mind. (for are we not but one? corporeal two the end, threedom and fourtune in stride, or menial pain, but striding all-together fivesixseverance—)
But purpose served: I am shielded from shame by hardwood blinders. They keep me honest (lying through his teeth—ha! I lie only through a toothless grimace, bitelessly barking the dusk)
And honesty a virtue? Honesty is my only virtue, I'll say as much (it's true). A poor man's perseverance, or a rich man's conscience—plying trade by prying secrets? i'mmune, for I have none. And for that matter, I expect no secrets, secrete no sullen expectations, pollen-delusions of grandeur, scandals. (imagine!) Through and through, glassily transparent. (not so, yonder glasses of chocolate milk)
But honesty is no mutual guarantee. Rather like empty air, it contains no trust. I might as well be switching in blanks in combat—blank stares, gaping at a gaping wound (who told you to—), lying down on my one and single (bloody) lie.
Or blanks, as in a fill-in-the-blank. Cloze deletions, as they are known to some, injected and revived for brief (arduously long) Frankenstein-like brain raves of half-med student, half language junkie. Rage, rage, against spaced-out spaced repetition. (-epition, -epetition—) But finite doses of affection, no matter how optimally spaced, do not unveil the hidden heart. No matter how much context, the unending line of blank stares you full-on, in the eye. You know that you don't know, it taunts from the abyss. And you concede—spacebar; [hard]; +17 days. If only love could gain the same traction, backpedal frantically along the forgetting curve. Survive.
The door, at least, makes temporary peace with the unknown. Here I sit, planted lumbar-tense-along-the-ladderback, firm on the (illusory) plane. It's all fake, I know: sitting back (as one never does), the convergence of ladder-slats (as they're never called) invokes a hardwood calm, (artificial) stolid solidity, a falsehood of a chair built on a peekaboo-a-bly-fake wreath of tree-mortality. While the windsor makes no attempt at smooth(-talk) support, the pretentious ladderback's inviting (un)curve joins pudgy, skin-soft with hardwood truth. Rammed together, but with a lullaby to put you to sleep. Lumbar-like, it coons. Posture-panacea. And in a deeper voice: Lest you fall through the slats, or scream past polystyrene. Better ink your honesty, ball-point your fingers, baldface the truth.
Because it's not unnatural. It's all too natural. Speaking through the wall, riding muffled air, brutally, blankly, all too genuine. My own voice, now, beyond the seams: Say the truth, I chant. Say the truth, ply the trade, fight the curve. Spaced out, it's not so impossible. Not unfixable; rather lullaby-able, fill-in-the-blankable.
The clock strikes eight. My finger finds thirds, savors the white fold-over, seals the tongue. Nevermore, the ladder urges. Nevermore, the mug-born-coffee-scythe cries. Tablecloth and conscience stained, I drink anyway. The air is biteless, lukewarm, cleanse-like; extended on an olive branch—a moment to think, a halcyon crystal in the wind. And spaced out, the swig is mellow, even inviting. I purse my lips.
It's still not easy to swallow.
***
Brief meta on style pieces: they're down-on-paper-first, edit-later sort of deals, driving style and forcing me to create content on the fly, born out of a single phrasal/clausal/allusive seed (usually in the title). I plan to explore motific development (à la fugue), exude wordplay, and to have no plan. Maybe there will be some sort of schedule, or maybe there won't. But this is the first; there will be more. Write on!
