Kyle Muntz - Voices

in

the rain.

::::::::::::::::::::

I met

her on the vestibule,

seeing as she was there alone. I have an affinity for strange places, facing

outwards onto the night. You could see the stars from there, but it wasn’t a good place to write poetry, though sometimes at noon the sun slanted at strange angles across the tiling, engraving the floor in skewed

congruencies of light, tangled in shadow.

Up above, the moon made faces for her. The emptiness pushed further away, a pressurized dilation, bowing down around the center. Every heart beat for her, every word to say. When it was for her, the world became real poetry, to be worthy, even for a moment. Maybe

she would greet me. A turn of the fingers, bright flicker of straining vibes. I knew she’d heard me, because she had ears, to state things blatantly, to name an attribute of her,

isolate the principles of

her

altogether, culminating a pantheon onto herself,

otherworldly beauty

and

blatant rendition (changing space). If there’d

been wind, she might have taken flight. Because

she could soar,

altogether. On the

vestibule, I met

her

there.::::::::::::::::::::

"Hello," she said.

"Hey."

Together. Here we were, to be with each other. I’ve never been an acolyte of

pain, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand intensity. Writhing, strings of dispersion. She had nothing phallic about her, that is to say, though really, though really. She said hello, did I worry her there? Almost seeing, she took whole galaxies and consumed them, not into herself, not worrying. If I were a saint, I’d never have come here. But I’ve never had much saintly about me.

Hey. To come and see. If

I weren’t a mystery, would you still be here with me: the way

I can’t help but revert to teenage lyricism

(

oh my bleeding heart my

skylit eyes you hurt me once you remember

last week we were united in our love together making

union

together you I me together

taking vigil of the whole goddamn fucking country

her cold corridors her angsts

fire and brimstone

poetry

rendition kissing

furiously

in alone places

my love) I just met you here

really that’s no way to approach the unknow-able no way to keep track of slipping time. Girl you said hello to me now I can never forget you. It’s not your fault you aren’t keeping track of words (I’ll never forget you). Really, is that any way to make introductions I can’t ask myself these questions while I’m so busy looking after whole new kinds of answers the kind you don’t already see in dreams.

Moon sky sun

scribe screaming

see

me

see me

I am.

::::::::::::::::::::

… that’s it, I see you again.

though really, of course I’d never seen her before. She’d been eyeless, faceless, armless, legless, skinless, hairless, unreal. Dreaming of European light. I could see into my own future. I met her there, in dreams. Really. I bet she knew. She knew. (armless, legless, faceless). It’s

not as though she would grow a body for me, grow legs and breasts and

beautiful,

beautiful face, though she did undermine ideas

of regularity, the cyanide kiss,

scent and moonlight, slipping

silently, a night killer, to make the darkness

bleed. I’d never

killed before, never thought of taking steps to create. Why she made me think. Could she intoxicate me, with stories, cleanliness adjacent to vampire purity? I’ve never been fond of the approached me.

Or did I approach her? undead, their clamminess and curling fingers. She

I found her there in the vestibule, steps, stones,

a stage made of glass, her own

place,

a kind of crying, because

did she cry, when I found her

there? I asked her questions she refused to answer, not dilapidating in

themselves but dissipating on

sound. It wasn’t that she couldn’t speak, or that she wouldn’t, but we were too good at making silent connections, the personal kind, she and her changing faces, her starry skies.

Truly, I wish

she was there for me, but it’s

not as though I couldn’t tell my own story (or would?…); the dreams nailed into me and whole families of thought denied themselves to me. I’ve never been a realist, despite believing in the real,

and I’ve never been religious, despite believing in false

Gods.

:::::::::::::::::::: I thought of telling her things, but that would only feed the complication. Monsters surrounded us, if I were to make more statements of place. Our complication defined us, our lack of a center. Feed me

MORE, FEED ME

but we weren’t part of that, or I don’t think we were. If there were even a choice to be made, between things and other things, reclusive. Fragmentary thought abounds me. Revolution precludes self-awareness:

OUR

…our world isn’t a place for fishermen anymore. The smell of gills disgusts me.

…if this weren’t real, I would tell myself

to focus more on the true,

because irony

has more fangs

than an old, rabid

dog.

…All things move inevitably toward the center (period)

::::::::::::::::::::

"I had a dream about you," I said, "if you’d believe me, and if that doesn’t creep you out." Though the more I thought about it the more I didn’t believe myself, the more frightened I was. Nameless, playing games, making jokes in a smoky bar where not even the grizzled, fantastically drunk man in the far corner found himself inclined to crude humor. If there I was, truncating. I could abbreviate myself. Punctuate. I really could.

She turned. Already she’d said hello to me. Greeting. Hey. I’ve never seen you before. What else is there to say? "What would that make you?" (she said.) "A dreamer?" To be struck by irony, a game in itself.

"I’m not sure," I said, "but I do dream."

"Could you see the future for me?"

"I could paint a picture of the past, maybe."

Can you paint?

Maybe.

"What are you doing here?" She turned back to the window. "Or what’s up, if

you feel like I’m infringing on territory, or undermining law."

"Maybe I came here to find you."

(I didn’t.)

"Though maybe just to chase the boredom away." I looked back for a moment,

to where the air carried traces of electricity. "I wouldn’t say I don’t like dancing," I said, "but I wouldn’t say I like it either, if that makes sense."

"It does."

"People say strange things about you," I said.

"They do." (no question)

"Should I believe them?"

"Maybe you should."

"It seems

like wherever I go, you’re there." I took a step towards her. "And it seems like wherever I’ve been, you’ve been there

too."

She shrugged, or the night shrugged for her. Periwinkle clouds were unlit in the darkness. Cool rain berated us. The moon showered her in pools of sinuous light. I’d never seen a girl more beautiful, though it wasn’t as though I had a right to judgment, not taking myself into consideration, that hollowness that was me, mind, sight, hearing, to channel the city and pass it through. I wish we could say we were alone on a balcony, but the vestibule contained me, there with too many corners, a stifling limit to space.

"If you believe the stories about me," she said, "maybe they’re true."

"Are they really stories?"

"Depending on if you understand language."

"Do

you feel like dancing?" I asked. "If it was with you,

I would care to dance."

"Not really," she said, "or not now. I like it better in the moonlight."