We’ve been together for years. You are, in a way, just a sofa, and I am mostly a raven, a doorknob, a lunatic. I don’t seek vindication for this, I know I just am, and you, for this long moment, are. In terms of accessibility, you’ve always been the best, and courted many and offered your services freely to a whimsical republic, those people who enter and exit and spend much shorter moments around us, and sometimes they grope me, but seemingly more often you, them; you offer me no protection apart from some small aspect of distraction, and you do not look disgustedly on me when man-handled but remain illustrious in your position, watching; for your attention is everywhere, and though I swing and revolve and am maneuvered, any movement by you would catch all the attention of those fragment-moment-minded maneuvers in this room—they do not realize the piece is in your handle of your long-sitting, your lack of deformity over time, your patience; what I mean to say is I think you’re not well-enough-appreciated.

This is an excerpt from the Statement’s annual Literary Issue. Click below to read more.

Originally published Feb. 25, 2015


The Statement is The Michigan Daily’s weekly news magazine, distributed every Wednesday during the academic year.

And the space between us rattles and grows, and I’ve squeaked and been lubricated and you’ve only just begun. And the space between us reduces and could shimmer, or maybe I only imagine so. Your light yellow-stained satin body glows like soft lightning; your parallel body is a forced symmetry that affords itself with the realization that a mask is a blink—a realization I remember happening, that knocked me off my seat, post-alighting at the window sill, and took away all my anger from you. Who has the right to show such perfection? There is no balance of this sort in nature. Perhaps during the basic explosion there was some. Why should there be here, was my question? I admit I felt some sort of godly perfection when I came from the inner-gilded, though outwardly brown furnace. Or was this the whimsy of inexperience? For though I’ve flown from there to there daily a-time, I’ve only done so. But I’ve never forgotten. I’ve never even fallen asleep in surgery.

The realization that the mask is temporary, and truth will never be found, but may happen in experience at moments of divine insight, like crashing, orgasm, or at the edge of sleep. When we don’t know what is happening but might. That the divinity within you truly may be found greatly within your constituents at the end when all is so un-pressured that the split re-happens again in totality. Everything is allowed to break apart; and if anything were ever anything or even imagined, it can and must be real there in the recombination of all parts and motives that become the great thing—including us, including us two together, for the briefest of any moment, when light and void become irrelative, and inseparable. No longer two sides of a page, they are the flame that burns it, dynamic, an end of god and balance, a choral glissando at the end of time. Until then, we masquerade, and it could be that nobody notices.

Though I’ve seen you every second since I came to be in this room. Can I say it? That I’m jealous of the asses of those humans who bleat around rubbing appendages on things, who rub things and each other down, (sometimes on you!) and move and run their mouths off with their bleating, who sometimes spill. I hate them. I’m jealous of their asses. Had they the respect for you they should they would lick (lick!) you, though I’m glad that they never did. I want to be set atop you. I want to roll underneath. I am promised physical exasperation, I have always been potential, pent up, with a spring down my back and wings that won’t stop to flutter and won’t pretend to until unstopped universal flight. Were it a fool who wished he were an ass? I am both; also a raven and a doorknob.

Also I am here on this side table, for they took me down when they left, placed my body here so close to yours, inches, even, from touching for the first time. And we have been this way for years, though you’ve been unkindly tarpaulin’d and I collect dust with my skirts in the air open; and I lay as if crestfallen, prostrate, crucified, wings and beak agape. And I am crestfallen; the room has not been lit for some time. The last—when I was moved—I was taken down with screws and carried in a man’s back pocket. The door hasn’t closed since. He travelled in the room, adjusting and removing the final things, blanketing the chairs, the table, and then he came to you, and sighed. He turned to sit and lowered himself, me first, so close to you I could feel something that just buzzed between us, a sign of electricity that I’m sure would have killed the man upon collision, something that pushed away all dust and left just the you and the me in the glob of creation of the first dawn, the planar spread of pulsing final, we two segments on a line and me alone and you alone in me and just this man who nobody could recognize, bringing we two finally to we! And he whispering “Lenore” and watching me. He removed me from his pocket, placing me open chested on the small table near you, mouth gasping in horror, distance from you horrible. And then he sat on you. And then he covered you up.

It is believed that nothing can ever be touched. Just, it’s your electrons bouncing against other electrons, or magnetized against each other or something, and the atoms in your fingers never touch the atoms in another’s fingers, like a doorknob can never touch a couch, even were they to ever be finally against one another. Your fingers can never touch a pencil, or a keyboard. Similar to how a voice can never speak a thought except for using a language, how there could be no perfect communication but touch, were touch true, except in memory, the expanding original, or the end that breaks. How the words are broken thought, learned or given, accepted because what are you ever without them, and it’s beautiful, and it’s like some sort of technological beast designed and who walks you, and loses pieces in walking, and how every moment you are creating in your choice to even move or not, operating in the realm of imitation and novelty, everything as possible as any other thing, where imagination is revealed to be just belief in everything as it’s all true, like the love between a door handle and a couch. All necessarily plausible, because what can you ever sense that never existed, and what whatnot extant.

It’s bad, and like I’m laying similar to open near but never to touch you and horrible, or normal.

Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published.