My skills are an attic full of dead birds. My hair is full of flame and my lungs murky with fuel. I remember heat dripping from my fingers lighting my chain with blue fire. I would watch it soar above me to flip in gravity like an arcing ball of physics, waiting for me to catch it and bite. They used to have wings, they used to fly. My tongue stings in memory, my elbows chafe with rope. Twist, turn, feet planted never as firmly as they needed to be because it was dance, darling, not serious, no, in spite of the crackle swish of fulmination this close to your face, this close to your hair. Fury when it tore out, treating it like a whip to crack, bring it back, gathering cord in one hand out of the other, play them off each-other, the congregation is beginning to murmur. I remember that. I remember how it would confuse me if I listened, so I tuned them out and only listened to my own artificial wind. I miss it. Never caught in my own photograph, I’d forgotten how rich it was, how much I miss the taste of white gas on my fingers afterward. To the sky, both of them, like embers, like suns. To my back to catch on my neck and twitch, kittens to scratch me with red little welts later, when I paid enough attention to bathe in cold water. Learning never was this fun. I can’t bear to think of it now, but I have to. I want it back again, this home I had, the conflagration surge of death in my heart.
Darren’s making pretties again.
I’m in the process of making a modern day mix tape for Ellen. It’s a group project, everyone making copies enough so that all involved may receive one. I’m discovering, however, that in spite of the fact that I have several thousand songs to choose from, I’m failing short of having some sort of theme. I think I have a nice idea, then “but I’m currently listening to Alphaville, who on earth am I to claim taste in music?”
In other news, I’ve been personally asked to participate in B.C. politics as part of “the worlds first serious political party devoted exclusively to sex positive issues” by a friend of mine who’s apparently involved. I don’t know as what and I suspect that I’m to get up and read raunchy poetry. This is my general impression. “Groovy,” I said, “but I don’t have any.” Monday the 18th of April is a supporters meeting. There’s an open invite to anyone interested in the party to drop in. They’re also having an erotic art show, are accepting submissions of art, and are seeking volunteers for the event. Platform, candidates, events and volunteer information at http://www.thesexparty.ca/ I’m likely to spend a day or two volunteering for the sake of it.