Why am I still thinking about

Randee Silv
October 2016

Why am I still thinking about that woman who jumped in front of the train one stop ahead of mine or that poet who wrapped us tightly in white yarn while purring/growling? Or about how they stopped me from photographing arms lifting in order to enter before paying in what was not a performance commissioned?

Remoteness.
Vice Versa.
Inevitable.
Disguises.

Why am I thinking about how they veered from a course not theirs smothered with meanings never kept or how she defined being on the brink, the verge at dawn? Or about the speed that sugar melts or what evaporates and what doesn’t or how many broken pieces swallowed? I’m still thinking about whether it’s roses or lilacs that are a she or a he or if yellow is next to night and blue next to darkness inside purple grays.

Distraction.
Assault.
Accidental stains.

Too much is worthless.  She’s writing that down.  All that I had was a withdrawal slip.

Why am I still thinking about how she kept rolling and rolling with hardly a pause or why he whittled under a circus tent or how they installed a waiting room for pleasure? The crowd gets larger and massive and traffic can’t stop it. Why am I thinking about which hum is whose in discs overlapping and near perfect lines or how she could unshake what had already been shaken?

Why am I still thinking about how spinning circles gets you nowhere or how she said pigeons are dinosaurs or how she smiled when he finally lifted her skirt? Why am I thinking about who will be tempted and pressured and agree?

He’s sleeping. He’s trying to sleep. He keeps falling on her shoulder. She goes back to stacking helmets. He’s strumming a ukelele. She continues explaining why we aren’t going any faster.  It’s okay not to be okay.  How could he not smell that single gardenia?

Corruption. Skylights. To be above rather than below.  Nothing separates unless you desire it.  Pre-measuring is said to give more time for counting.  The clip holding her hair just fell down.

Why am I still thinking about whether he’s holding a cut-out of a postal worker or a ballplayer or if I should respond to such a zealous report about nothing? Why am I still thinking how she closed her eyes?

Beyond.
While.
Therefore.
A paper spoon.
Sandblasted.
Converted.

What they’re up against can be named no matter how outrageous or outraged.   He said it should never be washed if prized.  He said he would not beg, sell candy or ever go back there  to fight again.

Why am I still thinking about how she talks to each and every as they pass or how they chiseled and strangled fairness or how they failed to instantly convince by random display?  I’m thinking about why so many wander through the forest bumping into trees or how she emerged from the farthest stone, appearing after, not before.  Immediately. Mathematical formulas seem to interfere. You can stage whatever surfaces. Old black. Fresh black. Dull black. Sensual black. Everything touches something. There is nothing than can’t be found.

Why am I still thinking about how he knotted nylons into webs that caught more than dust or how they innocently lay down not knowing they were being watched or about five variations of doing? Or how dividing and subtraction suffocate adding and how life illuminates more than a given place? I’m still thinking about one after another after another after another and how it folds and then it’s gone. Or about who decides what is forbidden or what’s allowed or how they  coordinated themes for occasional surprise or how answers can destroy questions.  I watch as they ponder to absorb.

Why am I thinking how predicaments are like broken records? Scratching. Skipping. Or the statues of him, naked, crated to the dump before they could get sued? Or how I too went up and down the escalator? Why am I still thinking about why things fall only to be picked up or why cracked windows are re-taped or why his scar reached from his forehead to his lip? Accounts too potent unnecessarily delayed.

Consumption without objects.
Forecasts.
Apologies.
Inconveniences.

Neither was sure. Until eyes met. They did shake on it. Corners of escape. Keep those ice cubes from melting he keeps telling me.

Images courtesy of Randee Silv