Monday, August 16, 2010

Voices Preview III

From Kyle Muntz's Voices:

Footsteps make such strange sounds (beating beating). They come in sync, signaling movement. Wherever I go, they follow me, like a theme song. Identical, mine and others. I followed her. She made no footprints. Her hair billowed as she ran, floating up behind. It reminded me in a way of the first short story I'd ever written, somewhat plagiarized. It was based loosely on footsteps and chasing. In all things, I see my own future, separated from the real, my life running (not exactly) backwards, from the center of time, not slipping in sequence

what pray pray for me there's nothing

I can do
to help you


I don't know if I
would ever
this to anyone,
I can't
even help


When the sandstorm came, I found her at its center. She was at the center of all things, not as a kind of focus, but maintaining distance from all points, asymptotically receding. Always slipping, she was there but she never came closer. Everything saw her, always there, even caught fragmented pieces of imagery, but she alludes confinement in representation, canceling herself.
Bathing in
sand, suspending in desert
hands, she was there but not really there. She would not lead me to any dependable source of water, no niche of coolness in the dry ache of the abyss. She laughed, suspended, and beckoned to me. In the eye of the hurricane, surrounded on all sides by walls of earth, taking a step, I barely kept from falling.


Writing poetry
in the dirt sweat dust heat
rock rock beauty in the sand



When I got to the top of the mountain, a beam

of light came to me, and I looked down at the whole anonymous world, possibly asleep. In the distance the

carnal city, glistening next to the sea,
and the


of the desert, in a warm dry cocoon. I relaxed,


a deep

and looked

the moon.

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