300 words Entry four Still Water Schizophrenia
Frozen beneath the ice I see your heart there with blood streaks reaching out like spider veins and Web sites dedicated to erasure. I see your memory in me like wounded soldiers in the twilight of their defense, not quite imagining an end from years of peace. I see your fingertips like switchblades with perfect timing and irreconcilable utopias in the framework of your maps and your geography and your jaw line. I feel inward like tight, bound up, like tarot cards and crystals like telling the future where none exists. I know. The depth of that ice train moving across Siberian peninsulas, black smoke rising from the incense, black smoke rising from the death fires, book burning, inevitable ends, curses thrown to God, that no one hears, the wailing, yes, your tears, your eyes, your blackest soul, your demons they don’t want to fight me… I see it all, not moving anymore and stuck there and there forever remaining like some vessel lost a hundred years at sea, where those thick caves of white unending blinding snow now form tombs of warmth where not wanting was and is the key to peace to happiness where the absence of desire tells the banal future of succumbing to the power of that movement as it swept across the re-conquest of Spain. Oh Isabella! Oh Ferdinand. Oh Ximenes.
Where does love fit into this tiresome death march and what end comes from that aristocratic intellectualism of womanizing and long leisurely baths at midday? You and I; it all comes down to a battle on the highest peaks, Mount Olympus where we mere mortals shed perfect souls and rivulets of crimson orange and burning hearts all set fire to centuries of learning – it’s burning.
Take up your ice pick now and slam it into the thickest parts of the most opaque. There’s no telling no ending no stories for the lost in this region of forgiveness, only rest, only sleep, only death if you will. I feel that. I feel that about you, that you are here in this vast unchanging white, this vast and frozen pigeon feather, this perfect annihilation.
I want it too and hug close to me the ramifications of marching onward to the flames that would melt this insignificant girl’s heart, hot tears, lava and reformation of glaciers, all. Marching and swinging beats to pull hair from the sockets of your eyes, to bleed angry into the endless endless endless white, spider veins of blood streaks all cartographical clues to the topography of your landscape, where I will trip, where I will fall, where I will stumble.
And cast and thrown and destiny and fate and pick up pieces of that jagged glass and tear it across the inside of my wrist not to kill but to feel but to become pagan again, to dance that ritual in the springtime – Beltane to know that this frozen landscape will melt, will rise up and meet the sun, and in this twilight, the hard black sky and the frozen stars that wink mean will soon soften and will turn purple with Delight from the sacrifice of my fucked up psyche and you, my Jupiter.