PARALYSIS
#10 of Poetry
WHAT I'M WRITING ABOUT IS THE TOTAL PARALYSIS WHEN ALL POSSIBLE RESOURCES ARE IN USE AT THE SAME TIME, AND NONE ARE ALLOWED TO BE MORE THAN JUST BEING THERE AND ONLY THAT MUCH. THE SMALLEST IMPULSE PULLS AWAY FROM THIS PLACE INSTEAD OF CROWDING TO IT AND THE PLACE TEARS OPEN LIKE A WOUND AND BEGINS TO BLEED OUT. IT OPENS ITSELF IN PARALYSIS AND LEAKS EVERYTHING IT'S MISSING, BUT WHAT IT SHOULD LEAK, NOBODY CAN EXPLAIN OR PREVENT. WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT IS THE MOMENT WHERE EVERYTHING IS PUSHING AND PULLING IN ME TO RISE TO THE SURFACE AND I CAN DO NOTHING BUT WAIT AND RESIST AND HOLD BACK. I CAN'T FIND THOSE PLACES WHERE PARALYSIS RESTS, BECAUSE THEY HURT BUT THEY DON'T BURST AND BLEED, THEY DON'T CLOSE UP EITHER FOR THEY ARE ALREADY CLOSED BUT THEY ARE STILL PAINFULLY OPEN. I'M TALKING ABOUT THE PARALYSIS THAT CAN'T BE MOVED FROM THE SPOT. IT'S HERE ALL THE TIME, ALWAYS EXPRESSED, TEARS DOWN AND TEARS INTO AND TEARS ITSELF UP. PARALYSIS IN THOSE MOMENTS WHERE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU WANT, MOMENTS WHERE THE WOUND MOVES ALONG WITH YOUR LIMBS, AND THE MOMENT WHERE YOU HAVE NOBODY, WHERE EVERYTHING SAILS AWAY AND YOU REACH OUT FOR YOUR OWN HANDS AND DARE NOT LET GO. THE MOMENT WHERE EVERYTHING GETS IN THE WAY OF EVERYTHING ELSE, THE MOMENT WHERE SOMEONE HAS ALWAYS BEEN AND NOBODY ARE EVER NEWCOMERS AND NOTHING EVER CHANGES. THE PARALYSIS I'M TALKING ABOUT IS THE WOUND I'M DYING IN. THE WOUND I'M CLOSING THIS WAY. IT'S PARALYZING ME THAT EVERYTHING IS APPARENTLY OKAY, EVEN THOUGH IT ISN'T. I'M IN PAIN AND TURN AROUND ONLY TO FACE MORE PAIN. I'M PARALYZED BECAUSE MOST OF WHAT I SEE IS HURTFUL. IT GETS IN THE WAY ALRIGHT, AND I GO OUT OF MY WAY TO GET OUT OF THE WAY AND WAIT FOR THE NEXT WAVE. I'M WRITING ABOUT THE PARALYSIS THAT WRAPS ITSELF AROUND YOU AND ENVELOPES YOU, I MOVE THE WOUND AWAY FROM THE FUTURE AND INTO A GRAMMATICAL PAST, I COVER THE WOUND WITH CLINGFILM AND SCRATCH AT IT, IT RUNS AND IT RUNS AROUND ME, IT SMOKES AND HOWLS. I MEAN THE TOTAL PARALYSIS WHEN IT SUDDENLY STOPS AND RELAXES AND DISSOLVES AND IT'S OVER FOR THE TIME BEING.
I REALLY WANTED TO TALK ABOUT THE MOMENT THAT STOPS AT NOTHING AND REACHES THE END. YOU MOVE, YOU MOVE FROM PLACE TO PLACE BUT I DON'T FEEL LIKE TALKING ABOUT IT NOW, THE PARALYSIS IS TERRIFYING, YOU ARE TIED BY SOMETHING YOU DON'T FEAR AND YOU WAIT AND WAIT AND FREEZE SOLID AND IT HURTS BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE AND INSTEAD YOU TRY TO COVER YOURSELF AND SUDDENLY YOU BECOME THE WOUND AND THE DOCTOR AND THE BLOOD, AND THE PEN CUTS OUT OF YOUR ARM. OF COURSE YOU TRY TO BE TRUTHFUL AND HONEST BUT WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST IS BEING JUST THAT, BECAUSE IT TURNS OUT TO AN IMPOSSIBLE ACT. THE BANDAGES DROP AND THE WOUNDS ENGULF ME. I'D LOVE TO BE HONEST, HONESTLY, BUT IT'S HARDLY WORTH IT, NO NOT AT ALL. I'M TALKING ABOUT THE PARALYSIS THAT MOVES FROM THE FLESH AND INTO THE WRITING THEN BACK AGAIN, FROM THE WOUND TO THE BLOOD, FROM THE PAIN TO THE SILENCE AND BACK. I WRITE INTO THE WOUND, I WRITE HOW IT'S IMPOSIBLE TO GO ON, THEN I GO ON AND THERE IS NOTHING LEFT TO FEEL. I TRY TO REACH YOU SOMEWHERE IN ALL THAT SILENCE. I GASP LIKE A FISH AND HEAR NOTHING, YOU MUST COME CLOSER BUT IT'S NOT HELPING. IT'S BLEEDING AND ALMOST FOUR O'CLOCK AND I'M GROWING INSIDE MY WOUND, IT'S SNOWING AND IT'S WINDY, COLD AND WET. TREES ARE OUT THERE DRIPPING AND SNOW TUMBLES OFF THE BRANCHES LIKE BUNDLES OF GAUZE AND CARS DISAPPEAR TOWARDS THE INTERSTATE BTW THE TREES AND SNOW FALLS IN HEAVY CHUNKS AND I CANT WRITE WITH HANDS THAT WON'T MOVE. I TURN ON THE LIGHT AND DRAW THE CURTAINS. THE SNOW LIES WHITE AND LAME OUTSIDE. I'M HONEST AND SCARED. I BLEED LINES OF WRITING THEN I STOP. I'M FRIGHTENED OF THE PERSON WHO IS WRITING NOW - I THINK HE MIGHT BE HONEST. I FEEL HIS FEVER AND HIS BREATHING DRAWS NEAR. HE'S PARALYZING ME AND I THINK HE MIGHT BE WRONG, HE'S FILLING UP MY VEINS WITH WHITE DUNES OF SNOW, HE'S DRAGGING ME OUT AND INTO THE LIGHT, I WATCH THE SNOW ITSELF SNOWING AND I FEEL THE BLOOD SNOW INTO MY PARALYSIS, I WANT TO JOIN HIM AND THE OTHERS, I WRITE HONESTLY ABOUT YOU, I FILL YOU UP WITH SNOW. I TURN ON THE LIGHT AND NOW THE LIGHT IS THE ONE TO BLEED AND I'M THE ONE WHO IS COLD. I'M TALKING ABOUT THE PARALYSIS MOST OF US FEEL WHEN SNOW FALLS INTO THEIR OWN PERSONAL WOUNDS AND THEY GROW SCARED AND HONEST AND SUDDENLY IT'S THE SNOW THAT WRITES AND WRITES AND NEVER STAYS FOR LONG IN THE BRANCHES.
I SHOULD NEVER HAVE TURNED THAT DAMN LIGHT ON IN THE FIRST PLACE.