Post by Cy Skywalker on Sept 1, 2006 12:09:51 GMT -5
far away
so far away
like the “News at 10”
I can’t imagine it being farther.
~~~~
leave behind
even the dramatic backdrops
shadows against (our) to-close faces--
leave all presentation, or recompense,
or bolded names--
just to have me
shut the door on me and (you)
be somewhere homelike
somewhere spotlight--
~~~
She’s in public, on that battered white floor of the public mall. Lo!, but today there has stepped out from the possibilities a coincidence, like a dove out of that hat that held no dove before. Collectible-trading card people (is this a career or are they rather like carnies? Perhaps research a career as carnie--) have set up stands today and one woman/girl, practically animated herself with half-Japanese face and a sport-coat over her slim frame, had pointedOur Protagonist, or perhaps victim, to the comic books.
She ruffles through that certain stack (a whole stack! Joy and bliss!) of movie spin-offs, which she had recently and passionately begun to collect. The slim glossy issues rifled, each she scanned--for a certain allure like in novels, or for his face.
He’d become more than a movie star, not only to the girls whose numbers dwindled; perhaps his name was synonymous with hero, at least in America. He was her lasting long-distance mythical love, something about the cant of his expression and the power he possessed, and she hoped subconsciously for him to last when and during all real-world ventures failed. She rifled through one specific comic book--an art form, no less, she had learned , a different sort of stilled life from sound (movies) or description (books)--and as other criteria of art or subject were checked off or rejected in her mind’s check-list (checked against her fiver allowance also) she searched for romance to reject.
A whiff of it would spook her; a stench of it from him would somehow frighten her, and perhaps she had never had such pain in reality because hers was an off-the-beaten existence. She had heard, as some hears about starving communities in the Third Worldthat other girls appreciated and enjoyed satisfaction from these model romances, but to her this experience was alien. She thought perhaps that such a quirk could be explained by how real he needed to be for her.
A skyscape attracted her eyes--a thing, young female shape and her dark-cloaked hero--had she seen his one before?--no--
“Sick fascination” made her endure to rate, and frozen there ignored by her usefullest (here) senses he and a she bent together in a lighting as if he had drawn his black cloak over both of them--
In the mall, by the collector’s-card stand, she recoiled, violent without moving body or expression. The burn of loneliness came to her as she replaced the issue in the pile and caught momentarily in the dirt-sieve if her mind a lower panel, where they walked with just his arm around a wrong set of shoulders.
Why?
Why such impossible and serious dreams?
Loneliness--
She set the comic books back in their pile, considered buying something else to thank the young woman who had brought (this on) the stand, but had no interest nor wasteable financing. She continued down the tile causeway with people all around, with bright and pastel storefronts professing the religion of coercion, and realized that her thumb dug into the soft stuff of her first finger on the right hand just like it had in the morning when a hint of else-girl had come into the circle of her more plausible “hero”--
Oh, how all her loves had been heroes.
My pen is beginning to badly fade. How ignoble that I cannot tell you how it seemed to her he looked over her shoulder and was tainted, nor how daily she wished for an escape more full than science and media, nor how she loved him in not infatuation but only a poor poor wasted truth...
