Kyle Muntz - Voices

"I'll tell you my name," I said. "I promise."

She shook her head, lifting. Flashes and accumulation of jagged wavefront glorious center, she smiled (waving no no no no no) back choking savor monster glory tragic fading

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He

took a step. I thought of walking but there was no fighting the nature of duality. Were we right, or really; it wasn't as though I were facing some fabulous new

mystery, myself, the shadow of a shadow (no, my shadow's shadow); the smiling

grinning mystery of me. He took another step forward, white teeth I never had to

fight for, a smug sense of the accomplished.

But we couldn't talk we wouldn't, facing the impossibility of intersections.

Horizontal between a glowing beam connected us, shining in the middle, thick

pulsing as we moved. Could we tear, or would we, pushing past the obstacle that

was we, accumulation of mind sight poetry, tearing old newspapers. Because of him

I embraced the unreal, one eye, keeping secrets. Shadow creatures coming downthe walls: it

Could

we touch, or were we touching. Together what we were being. He defined me,

escaped me, erasing me. Was that what? Undoing the ghost of a ghost. I never. The

artist in me No one listens to poets, for being impenetrable. Because I wasn't

willing to try. They didn't give me free coffee anymore- they hadn't ever- and

someday pimply headed kids the scum of alleyways might take my spot from me. Approaching he was and smiled. Aphrodisiac my mind and bearing. He was me

but he wasn't, I couldn't let. Our hands, palm and outstretched fingers. A wind

picked up and flair;closer now we;stood and let- we never- closer fearing renewed

separation denial still fucking LIAR LIAR LIAR the goddamn shitting pissing showering

sun our outstretched hands palms crests and fingers we touched

we couldn't.

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What do you want me to do?

he asked. There was nothing stranger than hearing the Chimera ask

questions. In the distance still: spouting flame and danger. I didn't. I have no

objections to losing my favorite spot. The spirit of the patriot is not strong in me. "Probably leave it," I said. "It'll go away when it's had enough."

It cleaved, decapitating construction. Plaster showered blades of falling. Statues

fell

monumentally, not screaming. They had more courage than I had, though

similarly we suppressed the urge to care, not believing in some grander purpose, or

the distinguished idea of a grander message. It upturned taxis, chewed through big

signs, transformed. More shapes than one it shifted, a mass revolving. It wasn't very

strong, but had the strength to lift at least one nuclear missile.

I clapped.

I told you you would need my help , he said.

"Have I told you thanks yet?"

I've heard you aren't very good with thanking .

"No," I said. "Not really.

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She rose.

I told her not to go, but she said she had to leave. All around us still the city burned, sifting in the graveyard, but no zombies came out, not feasting on car engines, burning holes by swallowing gallons of antifreeze. I held her for a moment, and kissed her, and she looked at me, beautifully, to say hello. It wasn't that I would miss her, though I would, but somewhere in me, where the demons aren't, she made me into something entirely different from myself, ghost mirror withheld image rewinding. She reminded me that I'd been to the center of the universe: that I'd journeyed deep into the forest, that I'd fallen into the water, that I'd gone to the moon. Glorious epicenter beacon of natural light, she was my vacant beautification and gorgeous moonlit dream, to prophecy, to dream. Spare pieces of her the stories held, nothing together but a tangled epigraph of contradicting voices, telling stories about hallways, about sitting. Everywhere I'd met her she'd never been alone, except for now, and when she was gone I would be alone. Sometimes I lied about her, I would lie: that I didn't see her face in others, that there wasn't such a thing. I know that really it's heartless of me, but I've never been one for sentimentality: all my life, if it is, if I haven't gone spiraling through some void in dimension, eating novas, drinking solar flares, prophesying to the cosmos and epic clouds of gaseous dust… all my life, a journey toward, away from myself, as though I were more than (something) like a person, no artist the poet his fake fakery lie of a journey. I held her hand and made crazy declarations of love, some of them true, that might have made me cry, if I weren't crying already, to forsake unknowing, to cast aside some bountiful thing in myself. Behind us the sun the falling stars (finally finally falling) mountains sun sky desert the boundary of the sea a crying out a flowing our a rendezvous in heaven I really do I really the sacred rights a garden on the moon

she

left me

IV

(this is my corner

)

Something quiet turned over in the darkness, a mouse (no not a sniffing mouse) in the way shadows have mixed with bands of diluted whiteness over sheet and fall and floorboard. Looking outside, I could make out part of the moon. It waved to me. I wondered if it were made of Brie. A cheesy moon: oddly distinguished. Calamity held hands in me and reaching out to (quiet) some tangled fold in me, hurting the hands to hold it.

For a while I thought of writing poetry, but grew frustrated with myself. All I ever think about is poetry; thus, there I have, I am and am not a poet. It doesn't leave any room for me , especially because my poetry can't belong to anyone else, it isn't poetry at all.

From

here to

there

it flounces, baroque like Voltaire throwing (well meaning) hypocrisy at the very rich. I meant this to be peaceful, but I don't have what it takes for peace: coming back, maybe that's what's truly inhuman in me, I am.

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I thought for things to be right, I really did need to meet her here. My strangulated nightingale fantasy, altogether hopeless dream. I am. The strains of citizenship run through me, in who I am, what I do, the places I go, all I could ever hope be ; drawing in reluctance from a whole whirlpool of stagnant resources, the world around me, the liberal artistic white male. I disgust myself.

As in all things, she is a part of me: separate. In all my life, I've encountered nothing not recollected; hearkening back to canonical readings of Plato. I am no stranger to trees, unsurprised by buildings, accustomed to bursts of unreality. I've been to the center of the universe many times, and I see in both directions. In(out)side myself, a prism of humanity. One eye. Two shadows.

If things were right I would meet her here, or she would be here already. Supine moonlight graciously flowing, the cool darkness of her lips hinting at mysterious varieties of expression; taking a step forward, back. I see in her many things; waxy stretches dark dark color, pale skin and secret body. If things were right, she would be here.

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The disseminated soul drifts freely through space, swirling past planets and stars. The vacuum is strangely relaxing. The moon is actually made of old, old stones.

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"Hello."

"Hello."

"I thought you would come."

"I have."

"It wouldn't be right," I said, "if you hadn't." "Yeah," she said. "I know."

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She tasted

like softness and moonlight: like purified water, more things than one. It isn't

so hard to imagine, though really I find the less in touch I get with the world, the