Jib Kidder - Windowdipper
i was walking alone when you drove by on all that
hardware cling-bling splash
gliding thru streetlight hookers dancing like rain, called by the mornia buzz,
somewhere wise heartbeats mimic feet - mine. i didn’t ask for a ride - paper bits just after sunset and mosquitoes, trembling in their ten thousand notes
in the hot
neon ocean with its
smooth corners and wavy
feather beds <made the prophets go nuts> i was safe once, clutching a small part of your world, while you fucked me, the DJ did his burn and delete. we kept up a slow melon thump to - “i looked at you and you looked at me”
theodore roethke in his owlish look: lightly lit, self-absorbed, porcelain, rubbed studded pockets made us wander back out into another long decade and suddenly we were famished and you bought me roses.
Magicians practice tricks in the rain outside the condos, lighting up the generic night with fireballs. Lancelot is shaving with a straight razor in the sink. He’s listening to “The Harder they Come” soundtrack but he’s not feeling it.
He’s off his meds and has been since Tuesday. He didn’t like how they made him feel so blank all the time but now he feels so alive all the time and he isn’t sure which is worse.
Out in the kitchen, his cellphone vibrates on the granite island. Guinevere . Guinevere again, Guinevere and the story of the ten thousand missed calls. Guinevere and the story of him fucking up his life forever.
It’s a warm night and the windows are open. Fireflies flare little bursts of concern. Kids are playing knights in the playground near his apartment. He wants to tell them it’s all a bullshit myth, but they’re just kids. All they can do is believe in everything until they they don’t.
He checks his iPhone and takes a drink. He rereads an old text he sent her, about how Freud couldn’t figure out why WWI soldiers had dreams where they died, until Freud realized that inside all of us is something like that, the pull to the death, and it’s just as strong as the pull of love.
She snapchatted herself topless with “cemetery gates” written across her chest and that wasn’t what he meant, not that at all.
He finishes his 40 and walks out into the radiant fireball pull of the night. He talks to the magicians, they tell him about the butterfly garden in the north and that Merlin od’d on lighting magic but he’s not listening. He gets on his motorcycle and revs it until the echoes twist and chase each other.
He leans into the curves. The rain tattoos her name on the street. He feels the violence of the night in his chest. There’s an emptiness in everyone, but you mistake it for something you should fill up. But it’s not that. Its not that at all. It’s the thing in us that tricks us into believing we can be happy, that we can be more than alone. The motorcycle vanishes into the rain, leaving blurry little trails of light to fade away into the dark glow if streetlights and 7-11s and corner kids and the midnight world that only wakes up once a day.