Losing My Hair
She's behind me on a bicycle, there with the ____ in her hair. It's like hair sometimes, the way patches of memory fall out. The wind in her hair. The wind in her hair. Memories of images, but more common than that, memories of memories, memories of the language used to explain memories. She's there, there with the wind in her ____. There with the wind in her hair she rides on, my blonde blonde pony just before dawn. Clumps may fall out here and there, but others, they, they, they are here to stay, regardless of in what context we may find them, every new context tries to bind them to a rigid meaning, a feeling, but they are too difficult to grasp, slippery, fleeting. What was that thing? But now it's gone. Racing like horses just before dawn. And if I dare? If I dare to remember it like she's still there? Dare to change my course upon a stair? Staring into her eyes after she's gone, leaving for home just before dawn. The meaningless glance here or there, the awkward moment in a stare, the enlarged moment in a stare, staring at the stare for hours on end, trying to bend it break it make it bend, analyzing it until no end, is it an anomaly or is it a trend, is there more around the bend, are we in a story without an end, we can't pretend to know where we're going, you and I and all between us, like a river after a storm, overflowing, like a born-again Christian, hope is growing, like a soothsayer, always knowing, like a rhyme-sprayer, overflowing.
There will be time, I tell myself as I put the memories away. Time for a hundred indecisions, time for a million mnemonic derisions, time for a billion fleeting visions, time for zero recognitions, of the past. The past has passed but the passed will last, even the last of the past is the passed past that will last. And it never dies, it's already dead, the unread book that's already read, the memories all reborn in my head, after I go to sleep and before I go to bed. The wind in her hair that day she rode on, riding towards home and it's not even dawn.
She's behind me on a bicycle, there with the ____ in her hair. It's like hair sometimes, the way patches of memory fall out. The wind in her hair. The wind in her hair. Memories of images, but more common than that, memories of memories, memories of the language used to explain memories. She's there, there with the wind in her ____. There with the wind in her hair she rides on, my blonde blonde pony just before dawn. Clumps may fall out here and there, but others, they, they, they are here to stay, regardless of in what context we may find them, every new context tries to bind them to a rigid meaning, a feeling, but they are too difficult to grasp, slippery, fleeting. What was that thing? But now it's gone. Racing like horses just before dawn. And if I dare? If I dare to remember it like she's still there? Dare to change my course upon a stair? Staring into her eyes after she's gone, leaving for home just before dawn. The meaningless glance here or there, the awkward moment in a stare, the enlarged moment in a stare, staring at the stare for hours on end, trying to bend it break it make it bend, analyzing it until no end, is it an anomaly or is it a trend, is there more around the bend, are we in a story without an end, we can't pretend to know where we're going, you and I and all between us, like a river after a storm, overflowing, like a born-again Christian, hope is growing, like a soothsayer, always knowing, like a rhyme-sprayer, overflowing.
There will be time, I tell myself as I put the memories away. Time for a hundred indecisions, time for a million mnemonic derisions, time for a billion fleeting visions, time for zero recognitions, of the past. The past has passed but the passed will last, even the last of the past is the passed past that will last. And it never dies, it's already dead, the unread book that's already read, the memories all reborn in my head, after I go to sleep and before I go to bed. The wind in her hair that day she rode on, riding towards home and it's not even dawn.
posted by Z. Wigon at 8:48 PM
1 Comments:
Okay, T.S.
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