These Are The Words I Meant To Put Here

These are the words I meant to put here. These are the ones. The very ones. But they won’t be here for long. They know how to fly. But they don’t know where to go. May I suggest L’Aiguille du Midi? It’s a mountain in the Mont Blanc massif in the French Alps. You can take a cable car to the summit, where you’ll find a panoramic viewing platform, a snack bar, a café, a restaurant, a gift shop, and a glass skywalk called “Step into the Void.” Which is precisely what these words are doing. They’re stepping into the void. I’d describe it to you if I could. But not with these words. These are the words that stayed behind. The other words have already flown off. They could be in the stratosphere of Beethoven’s Fifth. Or tinkling cubes in a bourbon sidecar. They could be anything. They could be anywhere. What frustrates me are the things they could say if they were here. What things look like elsewhere. Mont Blanc? Titan? Louisiana? Lithuania? Or maybe they didn’t fly off at all. They’re right here. These are the words. The very words by which I meant to say something and have long forgot. Which otherwise had been a place to go.

I like the splatter of ebony and agate. I like the splendor of you. Your obsidian eyes. Your golden nose. Your strange beliefs. You. Yes you. Whoever you are. Whatever you are. Thank you for coming. Thank you for being here. Was that you the other day walking under the Aurora bridge on Mercer reading a book? It is generally assumed that there’s an element common to our experiences of works of art. Whenever I hear a library, I meet a milieu. In the event we’re confronted with a great difficulty in determining precisely what is and what is not probable, it's always best to consult a contusion for evidence of our collisions. Why can't I stand up and tell myself I'm strong? What can I say to you that will stand the test of time and give you orgasms of stellar import and reveal the hidden valleys of you? I will say nothing that will implicate me in your private life. I've never been there. I hear it's beautiful. Perhaps you could send me a post card. I love post cards. Pataphysical ones especially. Big mushrooms. Spectacular tuna. Squirrelly urges. Photogenic odors. Colorful sounds. Moody modes. Sunset panoramas emanating the golden light of heaven. A grizzly bear eyeing a ham sandwich. Which is Buddha. Can you do it? Can you wait? I’ll be right back with a fresh glass of music. Have you ever caught yourself talking to someone who isn’t there? I’m not here to defend their toys. I’m here to dredge something up from the depths of Wilson Pickett. Get it recorded. Save the world. Except, of course, he’s gone. You can’t record the dead. You can only talk to them. Who knows if they’re listening? I’m going to wait for the midnight hour; that’s when my love begins to shine. Just you and I. Who are you, by the way? There’s a world rupturing in me. I apologize for the noise. Some call it poetry. Some call it null. I call it to my window and pour wine on its skull. Now I know. I remember. I know who you are. The reader I keep imagining. The reader that truly reads. And finds what I couldn’t find when I wrote these words. But don’t. Don’t tell me what it is. It belongs to you. The whole shebang. So please. Take it. Whatever it is. It’s yours.