Somewhere in Michigan, behind a dental office (I think), there’s a poetry walk. It’s called Oaken Walk. My favorite piece there was nothing conventional: while all the other poets had provided their works on pieces of wood driven into the ground, this poet provided a QR code: it brought you to his website. There he gave the most magical rendition, one I still think about, now, in my bed, with my window open: the breeze is tantalizing tonight; February 28th; it snowed, partially so, a few weeks ago. And yet, the wind now feels like middle May. A spring night.
Listening to that poet was in October, and maybe that’s why I’m thinking about it: the wind feels familiar, as it lies upon me, brushing through my abundant arm hair; telling me secrets, rumors of war, lands of milk and honey. My windows are shaky, and even when they’re not open, the air floods in, making me question the efficiency of a Mesopotamian ark (my faith is crumbling, crumbling, crumbling…) On that day, I was in the presence of a lovely one, whom I hope is well and enjoying an Alaskan night as I enjoy Boston’s harbor breath.
The poet had an audio clip on his website, maybe about a minute long. And it was amazing: it was him imitating a drummer’s performance; one that might appear on a jazz track. For a minute long. And we stood, likely hunched over to receive the nectar without hindrance; and we listened for that minute, and looked up, and laughed because our ears were touched by novelty. And I looked about and knew that my life was beautiful.
Tonight I am surprised that I want to write, that it does not seem a chore to me. I’ve spent all day filling out college applications (not even sure if I’m fit for college, I’ll be honest). Nevertheless, I did it, probably because I felt an invisible gaze; obligatory tones from the wind leaking into my room. I wonder sometimes how arrogant I have to be to write. “Someone wants to read this”—even if that’s not true, I believe it; I have to believe it (at least if I’m trying to build the courage to give it to the world). And yet, I don’t consider it an immoral stance; what I really want to say is that I hope you find my writing beautiful; blows on your sclera to rid it of dust and unwanted eyelashes.
I’m listening to Vincent on repeat, am sucking on a dry cigarette, wondering if there’s a hidden impetus to look like Marquez before his typewriter—but no, I am Elvins, and I am thankful. I only like the aroma of the tobacco; taste is too romantic. But still, maybe the Colombian spirit haunts like a dead king. And still, you'll never know me as I never know me, in Malden, on my made bed; my feet in front of me, my laptop upon my lap (how wonderful an idea brought to fruition), my feet and hands and arms complain not, the breeze beats on the window panes, Cola on my floor, brownies on my bed, in a container of course. My life before me, the evidence of accidental strikes of purple swirling signs in heaven: what is life but the plaything of the universe? Do I dare disturb it? But it works on me in this February night, and I am happy.
I carried her throughout the trail, and we were happy. And now, still, on this night, I am happy.
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