COOLING THE MIRROR

Session #34

No one dares tease the sound of a thousand phoenix cries. The fire writer and the feathers pull these blurred lines. I’d follow silently in the hopes of guiding you from the drops of shadows around. In some sense of self-destruction. As if the pain of holding the embrace could ease the suffering of exploration. I still wake at night to find your spirit tapping the radiator. Putting freshly lit cigarettes to your lips and dancing in circles to songs I've never heard. This new spirit chokes the old one knowing one day someone else will feel the falling of a crystal cutter. So free to move in your mania. It excited those bright eyes that would widen with each tormented flood.

—I am recalling that last summer (forever) when we walked under the full moon, in a soft daze of the passing blank faces. Its lunacy carried us through to the next morning where we had found rest on the long side of the river and lay there in our infant callings. Breathing in the blue of the river and the black of your eyes I lay there forever stuck in the night of our final passing days. The lapping water convulsions polished us, like the casket, it was ready to send us under.

I’ll never forget your last words.

“The city man—his face is a work of art, sculpted by the winter winds and sandbags that hang from his highest shelf. I’ll do it with style… look even this half open window is gasping at my moves.

I want to hear the mental squirts that scuttle along like centipedes late at night. I want to feel the weight of the buildings like never before. I want to kill a man then bring him back to life. I want all of you for the first time.”