& i'll go somewhere else -- 2002
(lyrical breaks: X)


'now it's five to 12
shut up & smoke
& i'll go somewhere else.
no more orange nightgowns-
one o'clock & then it ends...'

it's december, and it's michigan; most times by now we have adequate snow coverage. most times though, the planet hasn't stepped up the level of heat; she has not begun to melt ice-caps and throw everything that used to be in some semblance of a sync, into disarray. i do not blame her; a lifetime of promises that things will be better--at the same time those same mouths and eyes and hands are lying and looking away and demolishing. i would step up the heat, too. she is not me; that mother, that blessed sphere of earth and water. she does not play ignorant to the problem, for the sake of our companionship (when she knows all the while, about those mouths, those eyes, those hands)--she knows that she would be better off without us. there's just so many .. it will take some time.

'this is no place
to be addicted
to another place...'

replacing snow is rain that screams more like ice; it wishes, anyway--it tries. the result is drops that are stretching to sting, falling heavy-but-not-quite and they turn to slush when they hit concrete, or soak into dead-grass and brown. they see, too--they see it all and they do their thing; be it a gentle fall to soothe, or something biting like tonight, even if not dangerous. sometime between one and three o'clock it will become dangerous. the streets are silent then; whispers nil, and the temperature will drop. these sky-tears will find the courage to turn to ice and slice through the air that killed their wishes to be individuals; flakes like no other flakes, but instead, now, they're all the same. screaming ice; ashamed their spines only show when no one's watching.

i'll go somewhere else. i'm freezing, and heart-frozen and oh, so tired, but when realization came, the desire to curl up in warmth borrowed from lilac-cotton and fluffy, hospital-white got sliced up by not-quite-rain-or-ice fall. the last time i went to the pier, i could have sworn that cloud-white was hovering (too heavy) just inches over water made gray by a dank pre-dawn sky; in looming patches, there and here. i must have been dreaming, i think that i was .. but i wonder what would come of it, this time; with these chemicals and this inspiration and this love and this confusion. i wonder how the rain-ice that wishes it was snow would look out there, backlit by absolutely-nothing.

i wonder a lot of things. i wonder how i'll wake up; where. i wonder what would happen if everyone could just be honest. i wonder what she's murmuring in her sleep, in there, just one room away. i wonder if her dreams are like mine were, before growing up took surreality and galaxy sleep-joy and turned it into nightmares that, for the past few years, have had to be chased off into mind-blank-space with a little bag that hangs over my bed (they've gotten so bad). i know that she won't even know that i'm gone. seven o'clock will come, and i'll be back (from beyond); brewing coffee and curled against the couch-arm, bleary-eyed and wondering again, like i do every seven a.m., why i stayed up so late. most seven a.m.'s lately, i smile when the answer comes. i wonder what will happen this time?

i wonder a lot of things. like how come pieces don't fit together; like how come i even bothered to look at pieces in the first place. like how come there are even pieces in the first place. seven out of ten instances have found me in the wrong; seven out of ten have found me right there ready to apologize for the mistake. but don't ever forget the three (for every ice-dagger angry that it cannot be snow, that will hit my cheek, i will at least dodge three). paranoia is a killer, and it can also be your best friend. paranoia dictated that he never got so far when he tried to take her away from me, and run.

"you're just paranoid," two said; and then four hours later the call came; a confession and seven hundred and fifty dollars later, i got the court order, and she was brought back home by a marshal who carried a gun when he served papers.

extremes? yes. but only to prove a point, oh text and white-screen. because this isn't sarcasm or anger or anything biting, tonight. not like the weather outside. this is a punch to the gut that i'm trying to ignore; tears that i'd never admit to crying, regardless of how damp the collar of my shirt is. i'm just being stupid; i'm being a pisces. the water out there will help. the pier is getting pretty dangerous to walk; with waves crashing over narrow-concrete: freezing, thawing and freezing again.

i don't want a lot of things, anymore. i want myself and child's safety and health. i want (i am taking) a shot at living; to chase a dream with, this time, a little more realism to make a more sturdy net for star-catching. i want a little honesty. that, i guess, is a little too much to ask for. i want her; my god, how i want her.

i'll go somewhere else. it's darker in the dark; the girl is sleeping, people are lying (even with the best intentions, it will always sting a little) and the wind is kicking up--completely scattering rain-that's-not (let me be ice it would be so much easier than snow that is too fragile). it will have to start over, to accommodate a noisy wind that is not so accommodating.

the pier is waiting.

i'll go somewhere else.