tropic of venus

14 February 2007

Caridad,

Wherever you look a face will be printed in tension. Aligned ropes on which hang: doubts, reservations, terror, comical anecdotes. These are all useful on the side of friendly contention. I have come to terms with the fact that I have done horrible things which you would not approve of, and somewhere ran into my innocence, my dignity, but I have never complained. The bitter the truth is, the more substance: that I would, if I could arrange something, as far as men are concerned, and some others, answer. I refuse to engage in speeches on the subject.

Tools inevitably pile in an insatiable act of marking the height of where we've been. The skeletal also marks its way, or anyone else's. They would ask if I own one. I won't meddle. As hard as it may be, there is no protective argument, you understand?
Violation wraps itself around the text: thought. Glass makes an impression: the visceral, the rawness seems to have fallen and slipped, a little. Concentrate on the excursion, but don't disturb me, I ferment in isolation. Hardly. I have developed a therapeutic alliance. Mason stares, yours, as he is, we realize that there is nothing to kill: no end by our hands. But gripping tightly, vocally, obscuring the reasons, scraping and finally hiding. Cowardice is my resort; I must hold it, in order to spare everyone else: room to breathe.

I understand what you mean, your lies are tender: you call your lover by a secret name in order to conceal a force: instability is marked by a profound shade of green. I don't "own" anyone. Only watching brings me joy. I tend to love surfaces: to love to want and most of all to flee. When in search of feelings, my frostbite has no end. No one likes it when my face emerges saying that THEY are not, nor HIM, but over. Language backstabs us: malice, deep seeded. Procure myself a heart, not let boredom set in. But most of all: I don't want to talk, I'm sick of my answers. Do I chase their heels through several volumes of memory? No. There is not a pronoun needed. The "he" (plural) I acquire accidentally and not by looking. I'll find another subject matter that is cruel and delicate and tell him to lie down, who listens when I ask "Can we talk about it later?" Soon the desire will be lost and our hands will be empty: I will dine on our disappointment.

-Bajo.