You had removed all the clocks from the walls which left clean circles crucified by a nail where twelve noon had been, or midnight. You slipped the watch off your wrist. Underneath it, your skin was its real color: mushroom stem, whale belly, dandelion fluff.
To be clear, you are a metaphor, a device. You’re dead and reincarnated into the fictional person I could have loved forever. You are trademarked. No one can be you again, even you.You’re a Hindu myth: a story inside a story inside the story of creation of the universe. You are the seed that made the egg from which everything after hatched. You sat back, done responding to phone calls and prayers–not that anyone ever needed you as a god, but just as a fraction of the deity: an elephant ear, thin like a ray’s wing or a promise. This has made me an atheist; you an amnesiac.
I wake up this morning wanting coffee. I walk five puddle blocks with an umbrella to Belly General Store and order a large which burns in my left hand during the walk back, but needs reheating once I’ve poured and taken the first sip. The power had gone out during a storm I slept through. The microwave blinks four vertical infinities.
MP3: Patti Smith- Seneca
posted by holly.