“It’s a conversation”, he says. “Here”, I say, here being a desert of sorts, a barren land, a Moses sort of land, a dreamscape. “We are where”, I say? Dante, looks at me, smiling underneath, reaching down, touching, feeling, and his eyes singing in places that make me scream….
“Who are you”, I whisper, “What are you”, I think?
It doesn’t take long, a second, maybe a time that has already passed, for his answer, I already know. It rhymes anyway, the witch he always rhymes, his conversation schizophrenic, a sort of hum in my ear, a possession of kind, one that feels like release.
“Don’t you feel the sand that is cold, a vampirism, of me so old, a kind, a kind, of all where we been, from Eden’s gate, to now time that ends. Oh boy, oh boy, I bring you around, to teach you lessons of what’s been found, a ruin, a ruin in this world at hand, to reach to write, of all that has been. This desert is seen in only your dreams, it represents all the potential of life, life that it brings. I know you cry, and sob in the dark, deep depression a blight of the heart. I hear, I hear, the notes that you sing, making rhythm, when no notes will ring, and yet you venture out here in the dark. A gift, a gift I’ll venture for free, just write the written, and pretend it is spring”.
So I take my night shirt off, it seems the right thing to do in the dark, the desert dark, and he smiles. I close my hands together, remembering it’s a dreamscape, bowing and lowering touching, the cold sand, my extremities hard, and strangely wet. I look up at him, and Dante is me, suddenly old, but his eyes are the color of a living G_D, and strangely that is me too.
“For here in a vacuum of time that knows when, you can write of subjects of darkness within, or you can erupt like a flame in a soul, and milk a strange verb, and make adjectives whole. Oh when, I say when, can you know who you are, until you have written of what all you are. Despair, oh despair, of all that has been, and write of anxiety of futures of men, for here we are playing two sprites in the dark. This desert of vision that bleeds in the dark. Rise up, oh rise up and touch what I say, and bend you your fingers, and write into day. Man, oh man of tissue and bone, thinking of words, I hum in the zone, and here in the desert, the desert of play, write me a sonnet and maybe I’ll stay”.
It could be daylight, or that time in between, dusk or resurrection, or just some hours, like so many, that I just don’t see. The sand’s gone, things familiar around me taking shape. The day might begin, but the words, binding words, erotic and warm they stay.
“Who are you”, I whisper, “What are you”, I think? – 6.10.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל