Going Back to Egypt
2.19.2008
Some days nothing fits better than an hour of stream of consciousness writing. Weeee!
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Egypt
Rivets of your dashboard tape deck
refuse to release a flippant midsummer's choice of symphony:
and you are so wise to have chosen reggae
over a one hit wonder
or boy band or mediocre coffeeshop love
as we are destined to exodus again & again,
wandering the edges of the forest and train yard,
fighting temptations to reverse and go back in again.
Standing in your parent's garage years later
you haggled a hunting knife from your own father,
ripping off price tags of plastic childhood icons:
outstretched-armed-monsters &
cyclops alien that I secretly assigned as captains of my own adventure.
Placing them in the landscape of my imagination and mindpockets,
I left Minnesota without saying a word but rather unfolded
scribbled maps connecting Dale to Dempster.
My handwriting,
always changing identities from grade school girl to architect,
predicts the psychogeographic location of my mind.
The more I like you, the smaller and messier I write.Sometimes I prefer suggestive onomatopoeias, uncrossed t's, and improper word choices.
I fear being like the rest of them.
I hide behind the strange and the arm-outstretched-monsters
because when I tend to fall in love,
I most certainly will crash into you;
pressing my the tip of my shoe into your calf under dinner for two,
body bumper cars- shoulders, hips, knees, feet, and hands- every chance possible.
Amorous Kinesthetics:
spatial awareness of my body in relation to you
at all times.
On this drive I am at the wheel.
Another broken tape deck in another small car that zips
along train yards and forests.
Do not go back to Egypt.
You do not howl “A-uuuu-di” as you did that first night.
And I sheppard you out of the car at a lake that will not separate for us to cross. Rather the crest of the water is frozen and cracked,
snow capped ice chunks moving up and down
rhythmically, like the underside of a dog when sleeping.
You stand tentatively with feet planted- the water half alive-
the presence of a a dog's vicious bite moments before we poke him awake.
- - - - - - - - - -
The Roots: The Seed
Moby: Where You End
Ryan Adams: Two
Moldy Peaches: Anyone Else but You
Maybe one day I will be a DJ personality who challenges my little monsterpod of an audience to find what all four songs have in common.