   |
by Joel Minor Rapid City, SD: 2003 93 pages $5.00 |
|
|
by Joel Minor Rapid City, SD: 2003 93 pages $5.00 |
|
Hers are the first tones to tap his eardrums, the final terms to rally his fingers, toes, elbows and knees, and outside the stone just as dark as his rest. Suddenly, his existence! his spine, his limbs sit him up, it was watched but is wild and exultant, he feels his face then musses his hair-crop. In his head, echoes of law are hammering, determined shots molding helmet, sword, spur for the monument moment of heat. Words, they are, shaped so masterfully, for such protection of matter, his hands run over his torso and bent, bendable struts, for confidence really matters. The man sees! Before him and glowing through the entrance, through the night is a woman standing and waiting, just joined with another of herself, been guiding at the entrance behind him. "I've risen," he says, widening and tightening his eyelids to wonder, to focus. "What more is your want of me." "Naked," she replies, "and formless. To the town of your birth." She holds her arm out behind her, fingers massaging pulse-excitement into the long, solid light across the horizon, siftifying into a random them, as if he needed reminding. She knows he remembers keys, and she ll grant them ring, she finally just returned, from visiting strange angelic, desperate and loving calls out there, and she is here to ensure they continue. "Then I am here to be guided," and he extends his hand after his feet have farther enough to her head, with the strip of all the solidifying spheres of ignition behind it. They look even more beautiful than her, how separate but magnetic to each other and by another's handling, the offspring of his aspire to get her. Easy to the core, no-purpose he follows, allows her acceptance, every one of their faults detected in every single shimmer. She leads him through the shortly, hastened houses, invisible people sleeping through his resurrection. They seem fine to him, he had sent them to sleep, but he would awaken them, soon enough, they could not escape the miracle the flash granted, their slumber is sweet in its satisfaction. Just as his feet, which were not stumbling at any moment but sliding along a path of white, oval bearings, set out specially under him, lengthened on the constantly disappear ahead, only by their each step. "You need soothing, if you're not to harbor discord," she says, dimmed by middled the city, stopping and turning to him, at a lawn of a house she smiles is home. She touches both upper arms, which hang by his side, and studies every inch of his living, breathing body. "I heard at dusk again your calling, but this time that you were coming, and I, I split! in two at the tomb! I waited as such at the entrances, you saw me, for your arrival." She pauses, closing her eyes, gripping his wrists and pulse. "Father. Yet how still sing your strain to, for me, from so far, while I hold you here, as if before never ended?" "Woman," he farms, hearing not a note above the din, but peering into her streetlit face. "Surely you are hearing another's majesties. I have no accord, where or who I am. My voice my tongue have, just too woken from deep under, slumber." This is assertion of slowly, softly challenge by his heart speaking, even singing of the sight of, even into her, caught up by not him. The waiting she occupies, growing her to heights she never could, physically, maintain, is an open invitation for his eyes, only it seems, to harvest. And this in turn the source of, sweetens her ecstasy. Green, she happily turns her attention back to him, as if no news regarding his presence could ever parch the, grass is thin and dry around his feet. She leads him around the house and displays what dandy dwelling she, it, allowed to rest upon, every blade he savors, forefeels the ankle-deep sea that laid no path for him to follow. "This, stranger, will be your room," a porch-like extension around back, upper-half walls actually windows, wherein one might overlook the yard, clothesline, alley. Like stolen, he already deems his past many nights there, shaking his spirit loose in solitude, seeking the council amidst the constant rigid discourse. He has come comfortable home. And watching his recognize, she seems to herself new, here a tramp just there clamped, together from his dead feet and head, a separate but equal slip into this world, to welcome him back. She keeps hearing my voice, he was right it is not his, and it grips her desire to be released by the air again, where she belongs when the coon-prowl and cricket-sing, to become one with my sound. If just to steady panic by focus she studies, his extremes, and knows it is for this, those of his arrival she had prepared, enduring years of shun and calls, that she blessedly now forgotten, had never been. "Inside now, to the bath," she whispers, her eyes sifting through every fine strand above and crossing the delicate bones, joints, arches below. "Only amongst, not even a night, and already I need to cleanse you." Besides, it is almost dawn, he returns from scape-ing the many-shadowing garden soon to dewy, and ritualize will have to begin right away he saw in her lost admiring. "I don't care, what's under my feet," he says, to her leading him through the door that through his room, "nor covering my head," and to the bath. Won' be hard to meet among this place. 'twil happen sooner or later. She draws, and from her soul falls every drop a strand flooding desires, his very enters, of one and of two. The falls' drops pound her eardrums. He doesn't need to be mad, for any reason, and honesty pollinates every fellow of the village, his eyes glazed honey and submit the follow to every her woodwind plead. Every man, has another life to live, and he offers his gladness to those extra credit passes, of death to them. "Get in," she beckons, assisting by his calves and small when they filled enough to submerge him. "The take won't be forever." He accepts the lied in her corrective behavior, she shakes so much from the need to have disappeared. He's being, the water irregulars his stems, and he conjugates into their fluid anti-seconds. Could every of hers, speak as one he wonders, and every morning of this bewilders his satisfaction into nerves of warm and smoothly stroking, still saying something separate. "I'm not one to know you," she says, pouring with pitcher the water over his head, sheen-sticking. "But you're sent from him. I cannot skip I love you." "This isn't working," he rejoins, eyes unraveling the daring to hang so flow over them. Alone, were blasted, he dares every one of their fording fluent lances, stuck and straightened to no compare. "You save me to see her tomorrow." "I won't have anything better." She pours soapy over head, and begins to rather her sighs, soak-suds and waving walls submiss his vision. "I shan't want less but to boulder it." She takes her time, first to heed it, a friend so close she realizes she's naked too. "As always," he replies and itch, comes alive, she were there just everywhere to scratch it, unheeding to tireless transaction. If he could only believe in, this waste but perfectly always, subtlety why the language was even created, he prepared himself for the stunning day arriving. "Come smoke of my leaves that grown for you, just outside your window, come eventful five percent what he sings me ageless. Come meet your still when the hour arrives for their gathering, and witness their discomfort your brotherness ensues, at when that dictate gather." Her rinsing, almost done, to ringing and honesty, to be prevailing. "Then let them never arrive me." For if they did, competition to swell the perfect one to sides. He watches her gripping fingers ford the bars of his forever observe existence. Let every one, if they could see him, pity his penetrating stride into what is them, from away and afar, let them display to unattached eyes. "I think there are two that join the same." "Just as I have and will, every night, warm with what extinguishes, you enter the cleanliest," she lifts one foot, cold and loft to her attentive bar, "and memory ignition to their existence." If there were such softness to touch, were because his callous, already if not again formed from the unkempt trails at nighttime. "Today we enter, begin, from well inside." "I'll gladly be sold," he extends the other, confirmation and denial apart, latter penetrating too but offering, outside confirmation to the story. Practicality? Of man? does recipient really, blindly offer propagation of self to affirmation of the recitation? He relishes every palm and inside knuckle, to ready the dirty to begin its fighting back, the water is fastly deepening black. Did he want saved, he does, with the dunking the other the building of one desire concepts, and he begins with birth bathing bright to disappear, into the glory of failure to partake.
|
|
About Joel Minor:Joel Minor tells us, "I am an archivist by trade, just started this professionally last summer, after receiving my master of science degree. Thirty years old, live in Rapid City South Dakota; before that, Austin Texas and Madison Wisconsin. In my free time I try to focus my mind on albums, books and films of a philosophical / theological / off-kilter nature--to enhance my own existence in general and understanding of my own poetry/prose (written or unwritten) in particular." |