[response to “My time spent revolving”]
A Meditation on Next To
(A revolve is a sound. Sound is a revolve. A finger jammed in a door
is a sound. Sound is a finger once jammed in a door a battleship
blue. A sound is a finger is hot and jammed. A finger hot and jammed
is a neighbor.)
He has a slippery sense of neighborhood. On the one hand, bodies
plunking in the same place for a while like people at a public locker
room mingling because they need somewhere to store their intimates.
God, and getting naked in front of each other. He lives alongside
some folks with the understanding that while there is this veneer of
privacy–at times it is alone, all too alone, closed off and nobody
touches each other as in the communal shower–there’s also an
exposure, and the only way to get over it is to walk a radical nude.
He has a slippery sense of is. He thought all of this while he
practiced stealth. That’s the way he said it to himself, that
practicing stealth was watching a guy trimming hairs and knowing it
was a trimming in the sense that your hairs are my little sprouts.
Community. That’s a neighbor for you, he thought. We’re all part of
the same smile if neighbors are germs and houses are teeth. He felt
uplifted. The happiest thing for a person to have is yet another
person to the side. Or a finger once jammed in a door, he supposed, a
blue ship, which is something. A tooth or a fleshy jock, life
provides you a bitch seat we call neighborhood.
[read the response: “In This City…”]