Monday, October 04, 2004
Therapy, speech and mind, has been going well. So they say. I speak more nowadays, and in school I sit quiet, though I rarely listen. Mrs. Lunt never speaks meward, to me, anyway. Not directly at least. At home the Moms are happy so long as no defilement of the patchy…so long as I behave "like normal kids". The new Spinach is a woman called Hand. Mrs Hand, for she is no doctor, talks to me twice weekly about my lost friends and mine-my journey for love, about HIM and Foot, so on and so back. And I tell her things about Fandora, things about Two and Barnacle, about the broken badger and snapped duck and Foot wrapped about the dash of the smoky truck, and some between, and sometimes I cry and ungainly whimper for mine lost Lou. But not often. I leave Mrs Hand in the dark mostly. Mostly I feel good. For I know where they are, I know where it stays. Mine journey ended well. I found the heart and in mine own I speak thuslike forever, unwavering of mine Matty-me they cannot take. For I am HIM, me, it. Hand or no Hand, Lunt or no Lunt, Mom or no Moms. So long as I eat toast and say yes please thank you. So long as they see me grin and smile and nod and keep my hands to myself, they need not know.
It’s a glowing hole, you see, the inverted sky-pupil ‘gainst the blacky whole, glaring and shining of the darkened earth where I stay, staring upward through the leafless October Matty fortress, smiling and wondering how they are, the ones I lost, but not with the same desolate longing of no-love as before, but as the leftover Matty winner, survived of the near (for)gotten friends, for they left, yet they dance and twirl in mine mind’s view about the Matty bough, the trunk of mine found-love where they remain, no longer a sticky pool, and sometimes I see them before me, beckoning, yet I don’t go, I am strong now, I speak out loud I say "HEAR YOU, LOVE-SPECTRES OF MINE SULTRY PAST! LOOK YOU ABOVE TO THE NATURAL EMBRACE OF YOUR REPLACEMENT" and they sometimes look, sometimes on those good nights when it glowers downward as now like the all-colours of mine disappointment into a white-whole of warmy good, and it haloes the Matty me forever, without tears, as I sit, stand or squeal ‘neath its hovering wonder, and the Moms can see me dancing in mine saintly love-light if they look, yipping and wheeling about the grassy lawn and banging myself without nail, without claw, for happy drum noise, knee to clavicle and back, round and round like a Navajo rain-dance, and I see them hug behind the netted door where I oft saw the GARIBALDI sneer of the terrible past, and they smile perfume meward for a toothless gum-grin back mefrom as I raise mine arms wide to the blacky hanging canopy twirling and mine Matty-halo where it now resides, you see?, where THEY reside, WHERE I KEEP THEM!
And thus mine journey ends. I need only look up.
It’s a glowing hole, you see, the inverted sky-pupil ‘gainst the blacky whole, glaring and shining of the darkened earth where I stay, staring upward through the leafless October Matty fortress, smiling and wondering how they are, the ones I lost, but not with the same desolate longing of no-love as before, but as the leftover Matty winner, survived of the near (for)gotten friends, for they left, yet they dance and twirl in mine mind’s view about the Matty bough, the trunk of mine found-love where they remain, no longer a sticky pool, and sometimes I see them before me, beckoning, yet I don’t go, I am strong now, I speak out loud I say "HEAR YOU, LOVE-SPECTRES OF MINE SULTRY PAST! LOOK YOU ABOVE TO THE NATURAL EMBRACE OF YOUR REPLACEMENT" and they sometimes look, sometimes on those good nights when it glowers downward as now like the all-colours of mine disappointment into a white-whole of warmy good, and it haloes the Matty me forever, without tears, as I sit, stand or squeal ‘neath its hovering wonder, and the Moms can see me dancing in mine saintly love-light if they look, yipping and wheeling about the grassy lawn and banging myself without nail, without claw, for happy drum noise, knee to clavicle and back, round and round like a Navajo rain-dance, and I see them hug behind the netted door where I oft saw the GARIBALDI sneer of the terrible past, and they smile perfume meward for a toothless gum-grin back mefrom as I raise mine arms wide to the blacky hanging canopy twirling and mine Matty-halo where it now resides, you see?, where THEY reside, WHERE I KEEP THEM!
And thus mine journey ends. I need only look up.
Between the headaches I can see. I am Matthew. I wish I was dead
