NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2013 - Page 147

Long Distance Travel To kill a tick for the sake of disease is more interesting than a miniscule creature resembling an eminent threat. I drink the stream water and am less fearful of dysentery. In the reverb haze of recall, dragon flies resonate and I think of granite, Ponderosa pines and water splashing on rocks. The wipers still flick back and forth. A breeze settles upon spruce and aspen, I wade. Dead trees hinder, much like the way I sway in this shift. With the constant flow of running water, I fade. Staccato erases the congestion of wet spaces. Hollow logs—dense trails—falling leaves—sifting sun I drive fast and dangerously, contesting the dazzling question. Is it an empty bed that you seek or my company that you savor? I have not made up my mind. Sun veils passing clouds. The slick consistency of water slides as I lift a handful of sand and compare the particles to my life as it filters away and drifts behind. The unnatural caress of membranes on my chest diminish like salt to the collapse of cold vessels. I remain submerged in a bath of solitary vacancy. My fingers swell like satin, unable to sustain form, like a wind upon my breath I lose myself again. My vigorous walk keeps me moving forward. I will remain under the influence of writing verse. I watch the gaze travel in my eyes as I sit down. I sense an aqueous presence but with each glance there is absence. Years will pass and I still taste you in my mouth, smell you on my skin. The odor is faint and musk. A silhouette wonders beyond my view and I continue, unaware of my tribulation. I lean towards the crest of mountains, wishing to be held high, like those jutting peaks. The ghost still flows on my follicle’s edge. The rivulet apparition still projects, always two steps behind. The wisp of skin will remain as a stain upon my whispered refrain. The canyon gorge is like a row of rural land furrows or the fibers inside my vascular refrain. I look to the time when I extrapolate my moment of poise. Tornado clouds—sage brushes—horses—accumulate I drive south towards the absence of affirmation. The clouds pass and reveal a time we both sat on a ledge of a steep canyon. These memories are an elusive ray of sun trying to reach my face. The further I drive, the more malignant this feeling of adoration consumes. Those years of ferment and excitement, which I can’t seem to dissipate. One day I will not go through small towns as traveler or a remnants of destination. A contempt onlooker of districts, embankments and low hanging telephone wires. Distant scenery holds a distraction, like scattering night insects scintillate in the diffidence of space between light. The anticipated wait, beckons and it is more dangerous now than last night. 70 mph—sudden stop—VW bug in a ditch—engine hum Like the burden shroud of any disease and a part from death, I unknowingly kill those next to me. 145 This distressing drive impels inside my diminutive body, suggesting a supple act. Droplets prevail like a blind man against the blast of rain that dissolving in its wet structure. BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE My chest saturates every drop that pounds my windshield. On this evening the wind releases a soft draft in a small unknown town in New Mexico. This belief mimics the moment before the horse was hit and killed. BRN-FALL-2013.indb 145 9/13/13 12:48 AM