Sunday, June 26, 2011


One would think as fingers close a drawer that one would have enough room to think fast enough and clearly enough to keep one's fingers from getting caught in the drawer as it is closed.  As it is closed.  One would think as it is closing.  Fingers still get caught.  One would think that all that stuff we catch that we would rather miss and all that stuff that we stretch or can't stretch or don't want to stretch to catch we miss as it lays stuck in the web of our memories as one would think to forget but not today and not tomorrow and one would think maybe even next week or next month that it remains in the many webs of our thoughts some thinning and other thickening more brittle more crusty to hold and to adhere to the things we have missed and have caught the bloody fingers bloody nails the illnesses the wind of words of distinterest dislike contempt all waving and undulating but still very stuck in the web blown by the winds of the same the very same.

One would think to ask or to remind oneself one would think and yet the spaces in the webs of our thoughts widen with the winds of the same to modulate the disappearance of things the little things to hold on to no more no more one would think at least sometimes just a little more than never about that it comes and goes so infrequently one would think it might arise a little more frequently than it does and it does not as one would think to think long and hard and just how productive is this thinking long and hard as one would think long and hard to bear forth the infrequent the emaciated the aged the aged fading as one would think all the fragmenting and protecting of the tragedies and disasters ambitiously feed their ambition to reassemble for their service to the assemblies of puzzle solvers who have resolved to that all the assembling and reassembling go back over it again and again visit and revisit tugging on stroking on the long and hard thinking of the web flapping folding and unfolding and folding again in the breeze the dry hot breeze of the winds of the same.

There once was a mother and a father and a brother and another brother and a sister and a daughter and another and another as one would think or not as one would think by the light or the dark halls.  They figure prominently and indirectly before they arrive before they leave for parts limited and predictable.  The mother or the brother put up wind chimes that chimed with the winds of the same and their tune echoed the same that dulled and thinned and thinned and dulled ringing upbringing bringing up the sounds and images of the winds of the same.  And the daughter and another and another each or neither together or not at all either slapped and tangled these chimes in their playfulness as one would think and not too long and not too hard as one would think or as one would not think along the lines of the metal or plastic legs of chairs in the aging classroom as one would think to color stripes around the world in books and out of books stripes around the world before striped by straps bookstraps strapped no longer as one would think to open the weakened jaws of books that cough dust dust caught in the wind chimes that echo with the winds of the same.

Tangled silence tangled truth reveals the lies that surf on the wind gliding no longer on their own power but as one would think fueled by the stripes that strap and colors that color one's eyes and thoughts caught in the web stuck and plucked by the dented fingers caught in the drawers of information catalogued as one would think along the invisible waves of the winds of the same the same.

Little fingers tangle threads of chimes that echo the winds of the same.  Little fingers that pick noses congested with what the wind has exhaled exhaling more of the same.  Little fingers that tangle hair that has grown down and out.  Down and out.

Bigger figures bigger digits as one would think long and hard through days and nights worked long and hard untangle and curse and tug and stroke the web that undulates with the winds of the same.  So brittle so thin so thick so non-existent so still there so the same.  Bigger figures bigger digits bigger brains as one would think untangle by ripping and disconnecting removing the web that is weaved by the chimes.  Only to be replaced by chimes much higher more remote more beyond space and outside of time.  Beyond the reach of little fingers.  As one would think a silence that once allowed the shorter and the softer to see to the hills where trees welcomed their tangling fingers to twist the truth and reveal the lies of the winds of the same. 

A daughter and another and another shorter and softer try in vain to encourage bigger figures bigger digits bigger brains to stop long enough as one would think long and hard enough through days and nights never worked long and hard enough to let them look long and hard enough into the evening sky at little lights to determine if they move or are still arranged along constellations drawn by their minds by their thoughts drawn with the webs that catch that have caught that have dropped that have been dropped as the soon to be brittle thinned and thickened waving in the dark breeze of the winds of the same.

Winds of the same stirred by the chimes and the times and the signs.  Holding up signs holding down little ones.  Out of space and time out of the reach of the shorter and the softer.  Hung one would think from shoulders one would think only to read about hear about question about or no longer question no longer and harder thought about one would think of the shoulders that are somewhere up there or back there behind there not there.

Daughter:  How old am I?  How old am I?  How tall am I?  How short am I?  Lower your shoulders miles and miles and miles up there into the sky up in the stars.  Lower yours shoulders soon.  I've forgotten what they look like what they feel like how things look from up there miles and miles and miles up there in the sky up in the stars.  Miles and miles between stars falling between falling all the way down to the ground this time with no shoulders that don't catch fallen many times without shoulders without hands and don't get back up from after falling that far.  Miles and miles and miles that far into a long sleep you never wake up from.  A sleep that goes on and on without dreaming for years and years and to a number as big bigger than any numbers I can write on all the sheets of paper in our house or all the houses in the world.  Too big too many numbers.  Numbers.  Numbers.  Numbers math doing math not doing math tell time don't want to tell time are we there yet when can we go here we go I want more I don't like it when I don't like it and I ask for it all excited when I asked for it are these my words are these my words are they your words I think they are your words your words my words my words stuck with them stuck in my hair in my hair my hair that grows down and out.  Can't say anything when you get that way when they get that way when I get this way when you they get that way this way this way and that back and forth in and out like my hair that grows down and out down and out.  Why did you give me this?  Is this all there is?  Is this how things will always be?  Will we always live here in this place this place we call home.  Is home really here?  What does it mean to call here this place home?  Are these my words?  Since when did I learn these words and are they my own?  Will they ever be my own?  Are your words your words and not somebody else's?  How come I remember where you put things and you don't?  Will I forget like you?  When I get as old as you or will it happen sooner sooner than now than before now that's not possible is it?  When did things become possible and when did the impossible become possible so that they switched places like in a dance and the possible is now impossible?  When did that happen?  Do you remember? Do you remember when you caught your fingers in my drawer when you put my clothes away after the laundry before the next laundry and before the next laundry after that.  Do you remember when you caught your fingers in my drawer my fingers don't get caught because I'm careful one would think you would be more careful watching out for what gets caught and what gets missed.  Do you remember anything anymore?  How old have you become?  How old have I become and are my words my words or are they just your words and are your words your words or just somebody else's?  One would think you could get your fingers out of the way out of the way as it is closed.  And then you got your fingers caught and not out of the way as it is closed.  It was too late before you realized it.  Before you realized it was closed.

- Max Stoltenberg

1 comment:

  1. Love the post! It's very thought provoking and true.

    Alyssa Ast