T. F. D.
T. F. D. currently writes, paints and photographs in NYC. His recent artwork
has appeared at the Think Coffee Gallery in Manhattan. Other films, stories,
and poems appear or are forthcoming in Slope, Sidebrow, Diagram, Denver
Quarterly, PANK, Spinning Jenny, horseless review, We are Champion, Black
Warrior Review, and others. He is co-founder and editor of the journal Tammy.
Marina, they were pretending not to look, the gawkers. The stressed-out noon boots the afters into rest and your evening unhinges with pale swerve the course we cannot see. Yes, what is it you are doing at night and has being in the middle of a square impaired your spatials? Where is the circle, why is the boyish boy unsocked and topped off his block? All the eyes are darkened here, the puttering gazes wetting like rocks in the unread riverbed. The women here unweave me, your hair tricks in dipping flips my ability to look and be still. Detail, as in she is looking up from unfinished notes, stirring my belt out of buckle. White all around you, we keep our fidgeting minimal, our colors uncollected. You look like you aren't being looked at.
Marina, I am fearful no longer of the way I came away from others. Lightness wants me to leave in discreet ornaments tied up to your long red robe. You are saved by this square. I will ascend your braids I will remain on this tile until you are untied; that things this side bring themselves in–there is a table–to a form of wood we can delegate themes for, a posture like a canoe being culled into the bank, your lonesome back and the straightness of sight. They will all be taking away from this–taking–the unfound feeling that cannot be called lost. Assure me that the getting of to where we are is the part of me that will call to you tomorrow in remembering how the lines in your face drew out the last of my gaze. The point, which is to look, is also a walking away.
Marina, upstairs the exercises of refugees are seen by members only. A face is unstructured, eyes are often driven by the insurmountable feast of breath on pause. In doing all of this seeing we are the most seen; topical difficulties fall from the borders as beauty is bolted into the skip and a smooth rock trundles in the positioning of the pallid glance. At first, the thing that was first of fell and everything following the air I lost in greeting you. I know this most of all and lastly or that arriving here is connect. Can they take you and not your images home? Are they given anything in the sitting, the unfit sprig of attempted indifference? You've lost the lines in your look, the patience in your face ripples slowly into the unavailable discord of our complex shore.
I have not been outside in days but this is not a story about me. Everyone's name is shortened to a letter and this is getting confusing. Those wishing to speak to retention lose their voices the second the line on the other end answers. I remember asking my mother as a child to get me a set of sheets the likes of those we saw hanging on the farm that was not ours. Winter is no more, there is now the sea and the shore and the bell's slack hands arriving together in prime acceptance of the hour that has arrived, drifting, just drifting. Sooner or later they will all have had enough they will have asked our sisters out and played their faces flat in the mirror. A new tune comes to bed early, the air is bruised by your dance. This is really about me but I am also you, I ride a thing with wheels into the streets with an accordion muttering down the avenues, sweeping into the dresses of whores, tapping on children's elbows, rusting the elderly into brick stance, mumbling in the tragic backdrop of the capital.
Starting off we should try chairs first, remember the burned-down estate and how it created the city as the light from which we looked. I've become excited by the bare space between my gloves and my coat when I reach to point at the group of vagrants during winter's last release. If you want the wind you can take it and turn it into a small unfinished song by placing it in a jar. Snacks are inessential, there is no reason we should open this cupboard when the dinner will be seven-coursing. In the capital we cement our ascent by sharpening the bonfire with stares. Vanity expands. The town center is alleviated of mist with the ashen corpulence of the self who has gone off and into quoting history. From the spirit of these people a vein is lauded for contributing new color in the severity of liquid loss. My stomach hurts, our stomach hurts, for years we've eaten unacceptable things and taken every nutrient along in a trail toward the happiness inquiry.
Moving again into the classroom it is apparent that our leader smokes cigarettes when not holding chalk. He does not inhale, he is a rattling field of irreconcilable loneliness–not even the church can intervene. Placed on a level floor we clear out perspective by sharing a ceiling glance. In the cracks peace has signed off and muzzled the numbers involved in love. Totality is indifferent, ties itself into an unoccupied hook. Repeat after me: to be silent is to listen, to be silent is to listen. The tongue signs off in repertoires, the irrelevant palate of disaster and tasting it from the eyes, between the teeth–the ripped up maiden of the heart–the outside regale we carted our age into before building another wall, makes us component. When the shovel arrives the boots break and the gradual rise of our faces planes out with the intimation of vegetables. The Sunday paper comes late and with color tones we know not the light of. The world has been in our bones for nothing but all along.
It was the city and I was into it, moving forward. Small hearts taken over by coins and gum spots, the sporadic kip of light sipping the night before creasing the void someone carved with a scarf. There is pigeon, no, squab in the distance on the street on my plate. Please move over for the autumnal Jeep with its top down. Here I put our conversation in a can and what I liked was removing the lid when the evening began. We could listen to the parked car underneath the willow make beastly still. The faces on the train, light pockets of bustling mood grooved low in the coin count and dusty. Your sweater was worn by the burnt orange building today and I threaded the halls looking for you, taking the escalator after my woolen desire led me up, down, and back out into the hustle. The bike limbs the skitter of the transport, a bus throwing by in its intimate burden of immediacy, man walking after woman walking after just walking after her. Street-lit citizens trendy in the waiting den the dance charcoaled from the funk's scroll. Shadow is performance, starting off the day going in and then the head itself into sleep. Is this your city? Is this how we kept calm in corduroys? Maybe we shall consider asking the night for a little holster to hold its patience for rain in. Maybe the jacket looks nice in the wind, the people clapping silently in celebration of the places they've been, our city our ceremony. I again will take some red in my walk some gloved hand around the side of the street you complete in your hour of rest. To cup this, the sip the ascent the slant the event of getting after the path a chair for sitting down. Please tell me when the clouds come, they will be cut at the treetops they will be worn down by the posture of the highrises I left my dreams inside.
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