1…It is a dying mind that crawls toward a hurried ending borne on winds of Sunday evening. If the mind did not live can it be dying? It was a onetime infant torn too quickly from the womb. Was infant a subject of ancient memories and injury? Would it have been alive and at once dying? Would mind have been well and exacting in both capacity and vision?
On a Sunday evening, I fear that there is no living remembrance of love. Memories of sacrifice—yes. Memories of memory—yes. Of warmth, of pleasure, of pain, of smiles and of tears. Oh! Hell yes. But never a complete confusion of their sum or of a notion of their reduction. Never-ever! Nothing more than the trade of a thing and the barter of a feeling.
2…A memory of blood and my numbed hands as their fingers frantically filled the wound to search for, to find and then to squeeze closed a severed artery as it drew back into itself and the opened muscle of her body. Tears? My eyes? No! Instead I wiped rain from my face and hunched forward to cover her with as much of me as I could without further injuring her. We tasted the fear together. I squeezed and we waited a lifetime together. She grasped my arm and whispered softly that she hoped I would not die.
Mechanical wails filled the corners and alleys. We waited and her blood crawled from my hand up my arm. Then I prayed! I won’t remember to what; whether him or Him or her or Her or those 3-Sums that guide us over the cliff that drops us before we fall. I pray and I always fall.
Those beautiful red lights ultimately blinded us. The solitude of our mutual struggle were shattered; (so overpowering the space between the passing of each second). I removed my touch from her body and wiped the water from my face.
These Gods moved her and I stood close to them for she had been so close to me. She was still mine as they filled the rear portion of some alien craft with herself. The lines that connected it to her and terminated at the edge, was a Cyborg deity or a God-machine, for I know not what I should name it.
Beyond what I could see from the street and above what I could understand— I watched Him/him feed carefully metered substance into her. I found it to be good!
Between the time she was removed from me and taken before the metal savior, we caught hold with our eyes. We fixed into the center of our spirits, listening and unable to remember what passed between us in that moment of silent relief.
I touched the corner of an ivory blanket near her shoulder. I smiled and she smiled. We both whispered “thank-you” for whatever we felt required gratitude.
On the ledge of Bridge, I stare at Viaduct and her broken sister, the crumbled wreck of a once strong and vigilant entity. I find that it is good!
And! Beautiful you are…