a hearty red rooming

or i'm not good enough.

like the embers of jane eyre's defiance of john reed after she's thrust into the red room, a bit of distance from the rejection and the fire dies down: i am not good enough. maybe. well, it's certainly possible.

and in a way, i blame emily dickinson for why i keep trying to believe in myself: it's easier for me to write for the equivalent of my trunk with her example before me. because obviously i don't get published for the same exact reasons as she didn't: my genius is just too broad for my times. that was a joke. but it was also kind of a wish. it would be nice to have some vindication for all the years of being kind of a secret freakshow, all the years of chronicling my secret difference. ah, who am i kidding? i just want to be emily dickinson...and who wouldn't?

oh, and b-t-dub, i think this next series will be written to the music of seal's album "seal." i don't think there's any real need to decide whether this is cool or incredibly lame.

you know what? in honor of emily dickinson (or whatever), i too will reformat my crap into books on the internet. i'm going to turn each of them into their own separate blog on the internet, and then connect them to this one. in honor of the fact that publication by the man is the man's mind's auction, but self-publication on the internet is the auction of an attempt at self-justification.

quietus III

i.

in my mind's sight i saw a door. it wasn't so much one door as all doors, the concept of a door, which is never not in motion.

i broadened the strip of my eyesight into a predator's horizon, let in the riot of light at the periphory of vision. the action in me mimicked the strip of light at the edge of the door. slowly that strip expanded like light itself.

when the door opened, i closed my eyes again, but the door would not close, because closure was impossible.

ii.

my heart beat as one but it was tared out into two: the heart at the left and the heart at the right. like wings that beat together because they could not do otherwise, my heart beat. i wrapped my heart in feathers smelling of the wax that stuck them together

and, in flight, felt the skin of the sun on my face, saw the jewel blaze of the sun's eyes, felt the touch of the sun's burning mouth, the sweet salt taste of sunlight and the smell of

something melting.

if my heart was ill-devised wings, the smell of heating wax was my heart melting. my heart, falling apart, riven side from side, dripping like wings. it ran over my two hands.

and you were the sun.

run down

my throat

and coat

my word

with raw

fire.

the taste

like honey,

the copper

of pain,

and wax,

because

i gave you

my heart

and therefore

it is yours,

and therefore

when it melts

it is you

that melts,

i say,

so let me

dream

your taste--

honestly,

i care

so little

for

the truth.