| Profile |
|
The writer of this story
has already fallen to sleep, but spreading out like crabgrass, like
vines, come words upon words, and even so, a binding coherence to them::::as
if one were to whisper to oneself yet experience it as something being
overheard ‘No such thing as miracles::::only surprizes’::::words now
more like ice crystals::::and the writer’s body shifts, smoothing pain,
dead weight of the head pressed to the page.
Could this be a melting of the head?::::Like when one sees images
of people shot in the head, how the blood leaks out::::these words.
People often teach their memory to perform
tricks::::as if dogs, and the method is invariably the
same::::repetition. What
would be the consequence of the writer awakening, lifting head, and
peering down and seeing that the story has been written::::as it were,
without the simplest intervention, no thought, no muscle…
And as the writer sleeps::::the words etch
their way around the slight curve of the forehead, the brow, that noble
nose, the flattened cheek, raw chin::::a profile::::so that when the
writer does indeed awaken, eyes wild like an astronomer who swears
he’s discovered nomad tents at the foot of the mountains on the moon,
his white face will indeed be there::::in profile::::and alert::::with
the expression like one whose face is printed on money. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: © wfairbrother 2002 |