Another Reason to Fast

For Benjamin Smoke

In the only televised interview
the one that flickers through
gutters of time. The one that
never happens. Or, folded into
future frequencies. You move through
dissonance. A series of desperate
gestures. Your hands, trembling.
The spectre of growing up poor
during the final, failing century.
Broken shards of glass, remnant,
excess. Your hands the hands
of Jean Genet, broken-
down Hölderlin. Queer, white
trash. Remainder. Alone, and never
not filling our small decadent room
with pills and boys and beautiful
but sound-less music. An endless
concatenation of crystal
methamphetamine, cigarettes,
black and white photographs,
and the prettiest
ripped thrift-store dress.
Quietness is not silence.
It is its own music.A bleaker
frequency, Rutherfordium,
non-radio. Antigone,
alive, just barely, in the high-rise
outside the god-forsaken
southern city.

-Cynthia Cruz

Filed under: Séance (Writing), Spirit LettersTagged with: , ,