Kyle Muntz: Voices

"Because I’m an enigma."

"That’s bullshit."

"I know."

We kept going. Behind, the road snaked to the fading point, crooked, a

stretched, broken finger, asphalt and distance, driven. We weren’t vehicles, not waiting anymore.

"Yeah," I said, "I hear them."

"You could just talk to her, you know."

Markus shook his head, cringing. I knew somewhere inside he wanted to, but he never would, and I knew that too. He was afraid, and he had always been afraid. Most likely he would never be within a few feet of her again. I wasn’t nice enough to tell him the hard way, but at least this way I looked like a friend.

.

.

.

I didn’t

feel like walking anywhere.::::::::::::::::::::

Yeah, he said, I know her. I can’t describe her anymore than anyone else can, but I know her. I met her at a party a few months ago, in the back room, and we talked for a long time. She had interesting things to say. I haven’t met an interesting girl since, and most likely, I’d never met one before either. She didn’t say anything about a boyfriend, but I was too scared to ask.

It’s not true, you know, what they say about her. They tell stories because no matter what she’ll always be there, but the stories they tell aren’t true. About bedrooms at midnight, about hallways? She told me none of them were true, and I believe her. If I didn’t believe her, she said, no one ever would.

We talked for a long time. We sat on a table, kicking things. I gave her my drink. Halfway through I told her I loved her, though she wouldn’t say anything back. We were silent for a few minutes. She was a bringer of silence, a prophet of radiance. People don’t understand the light she gives off. If the world could circle her, then it would. And there’s a chance it does already.

When we finished, I realized the party was already over. I stepped on a few people on the way out. I got her another drink. She said she didn’t need a ride home. If she had, I would have given it to her. She said thanks, and it was the first time I’ve ever cared for gratitude. Before she left, she gave me a hug. I’d never cared for hugs before either.

James threw harder this time. He threw hard and I already knew. It cut an arch through the sky, air-shaped, that undid ancient theories of propulsion. It flew, I’d already known. Author of meanings, bringer of prophesy. Molecules wavered, making room, and boundaries shattered like cracking glass.

The car swerved off the side of the road. It fell in a ditch. The rock scratched a crevice over the windshield, stark white on cleanliness. The car spat black smoke, an emblem of damage.

"We should probably get out of here," I said.

We did.

…they can

(echo)

Sometimes

I wonder if it really isn’t an issue of time and place, of derangement, of blinking. Those are days I sit on an old tire and throw rocks into trashcans. Those are the boring days, the wasting days, the silent moments. My friends tell me I’m not the same anymore, but I don’t think they understand change. If I’ve changed, then I obviously don’t need sameness.

I’ve never been fond of magicians. They’re just extremely talented liars who are far, far too good at what they do. I don’t think people

understand that

either.

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

"What’s your name?"

We were in the alley again, and it was dark here. Spilled trash, rotten onion, hydrogen peroxide, lubricating oil. Hidden spots are microchasms of waste. They don’t smell very good either.

"It’s Veronica," she said. Her hair spilled wild, an auburn cascade, her sense of European distinction; she was all jagged angles and emphasis, not an accessible beauty, not a face to pass by. She wore red today, or crimson, though it was crimson, with the context she gave it. I never understood how she could walk in heels, advertising herself- but no, they didn’t care for that, she was all surface contours and flair, to catch the eyes, to the anchor the gaze. Sometimes I wondered if it was possible to love her, but it wasn’t much of a question.

We talked for a while.

I had trouble following the conversation, its flow and curvature, fragmentary. There we were, dualistic, rebounding voices, alone in a dark place where none but the highest lights shone.

"Where are you

from?"

not, "here."

It’s not difficult hating this place, but even

harder to love it.

"Were you born,"

here?

I’ve never

really understood birth. "No

it’s not" a matter

of renewability either, just

I

had trouble following the conversation. A while in she told me, that maybe, if I

hadn’t been buying her time, she might have given it to me anyway. I said thanks, though I’ve never been liberal with gratitude. We stood together in the alley, drifting together, drifting away. Then we sat on opposite sides, facing together, where I could see up her skirt. I wasn’t sure if she did it on purpose. She had long, long legs. She was a goddess of vision, and she was easy to love.

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

I went to a poetry reading and met revelation there. I’ve never been fond of personification, but sometimes poetry personifies itself. Sometimes personality itself is impersonal. Transformation is pointless without mediums.

I met a kid named Jacob there. That’s not true. I’d met him before, but seeing him made me remember. I didn’t like him immediately, or remembered immediately, that I didn’t like him. He had a sallow face and rotten teeth. He was hateful, spite and wrongness, casting no shadow. The light didn’t touch him well. He took up too much space. But at the same time, too little.

The world doesn’t drink poetry. There were maybe four of us. We didn’t even get free coffee. I tried. They said they’d give me ten percent free, and they didn’t even give me that. But at least they had something like a stage. If you spoke loud enough, maybe you might be heard.

None of the poetry was any good. It didn’t have any personality, flair, verbosity. It was just stuff about leaves and bristles, May mornings in young homes where the sun beats shining through the window huge yellow fire: you look out smiling think (maybe) this might be something akin to peace. They made frequent, failing use of the alphabet, rhyming poorly like old, dead men, and painfully, like children telling lies. No real poet invents truth. The truth, unfolding, reinvents itself.

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

At times, I can be wildly, wildly opinionated.

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

Markus was right. Ashley couldn’t have been more attractive. The invisible centered on her, and she captured attention without knowing. They all knew her, and I did too, possibly as much as they did, by looking at her, contemplating fantasy. She was an endlessness of fantasy, unknowable. The unrecognized, the petty.

Markus told me he liked her. He like her then, and he would always like her. She was a motif of the oblivious, a grandiose messenger of the painful. Markus didn’t understand what I meant. No one seemed to. I thought of saying more, but I didn’t know either, any more than he did. She was illusive, invisible, a savior. No, she wasn’t, would never, and had never been a savior, but she looked like one, and she

saved. "I hope you’re less intimidating than you look," I said.

She shrugged and said maybe she was. She said it intimidatingly. Liar.

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

It wasn’t fun to write poetry in the park- there where wind blew, where the flowers bloomed, nature’s artifice in the city. There wasn’t enough energy: too many people, barking dogs, drops of rain. Grass fell over, beaten unreal. Maybe a long time ago there might have been water in the fountain. There still was, but you never know.