Although on page two hundred and twenty it must come to end, for two hundred and nineteen and a half pages, I found on this tree-pรขtรฉ (I don't know where ink comes from) a friend.
Patrick for all his lonely sorrows has taken me, sat me down in a blanket, and hidden me from the real world. From touchable, grabbable joy From the cold touch of a dead memory From the contorted warmth of a lover about to take a journey. From the satisfaction of a day job From the numbing repetition of a day job From anything tangible I hide, and while away awhile.
Reading.
Page to page different circumstantial photographs, beautifully, hauntingly captured, some of them, all in his warm tongue and keen hand.
I wonder if I know these things he speaks of. I am so close to them I can see them I'm in my blanket My tongue in my mouth My hands on his pages My ears greedily lapping up his nutrition (too quickly to taste) and my mouth is dry.
Not a callous touches my skin. Not a memory picks up a pencil. Not a lover contorts my limbs, my neck, ruffles my hair. I can ruin my own hair. I can stand up and see through my eyes as well as his I might feel tangible And I'll write a poem about it
Quite free, quite confused That's the way to be You can't win or lose That's the way for me