Letter To Ryan Bergmann - by Adam Pomajzl

it′s sheets or rains that′s keeping me down, i′m not sure which
one. cuts and bruises. evenings start sincere but end up a flailing
sort of sinister. you can′t see the damage but it′s there, seeping
beneath the skin in a hunch of back — a bloated pulsing infection.

or maybe it′s just pelicans on snowfalls.

today i′m a child, looking for answers in the eastern wisps
of starlight, without controlling blinks it gives back. tossled hair,
a deep seeded need for seclusion. hands in pockets. cigarettes by
streetlights. it's all muddled with the present. mix tapes.
shoebox letters. the curdled scent of perfume and dusty garages.
(mine was a tilted piece of work, paint peeled like caterpillars
that recoil against the staleness of old wood. gasoline.
model cars. pieces of lawnmowers scattered in far corners.
extention cords. my father's hands towering to reach the
portable hood light. he's out fixing the car. again. all this
endless work bookending a week filled with endless work. mom's
in the kitchen. she says it's vitamins.)
it′s all a dilema and this afternoon light is fading. fast.

the border to the public garden is laced with an iron wrought
fence that propells spikes toward heaven. this city is full of
believers. bleeders for faith. 45 days until the first sprout of
green pops up under stars, a blanket of reasonable warm and
we can′t really drink from those stars — it′s all a silent
existence, yet i can feel it drilling into me. i′m woken up. it′s
all time lines and semantics. we split up our space.

Orion is doubtless above all this and casting shadows in clear
cut messages. down the distance a shape moves on the bench and clears
a throat. not much there. social concern. 1964 France. 2003 Boston.
no difference, just time zones. the pond is illuminated by distraction
and a solid surface replaces a gentle wave of memory, easy like picture
postcards. a bleeding innocence. brickwork by Deluca′s. copper trim.
attention, attention. i′m still hiding. behind all the dead elms.
the sleeping willows. it′s night and i'm not quite sure who's
pulling on the lights. attention, attention. i'm painting picture
postcards.

all in all, a search for mirrors.

somehow tonight, i′m impressed by smoke coming off of building
tops. watching silhouettes round corners in living rooms. in slippers
in shoes. robes with initials. cursive. embroidered. well, okay.
i′ve got matchbooks from the last twelve bars, sulphur to their
simple shrugs. to reaction.

so no one move. don't make a sound. no one speak a word.
unless it's about self esteem. if not, everyone just stand still.
just a minute.

just hold the phone.
like being back in the yard, trying to figure out all the noise,
mom′s taking a lot of vitamins these days and it′s avoidable. dad′s
working the kinks out of the car, still not saying much. i love them
both. i can′t stand the cycles, tho. my screams don′t quite
seem to pierce the fluctuating levels of this mess. so i set sail.
whipped up a dream. drove away. almost completely — anything to build).

the Public Alley then was more docile than it is now. By the
State House the alleys are a broken collection of cobblestone curbs
that wind themselves to front doors of shops and
a bar with wooden floor — fireplace in the corner. just a good start
to something. i saw it rain on snowfall today. out the window, just
the tops of heads. tops of hats. neon signs for cameras. the
University housing development and student assistance office. big
front door. brass handles that cast a keen reflection of starlight
onto the keen reflection of moonlight that bounces from the keen way
they built shiny elements into the concrete of Roman pillars that cover
the front of the building. Elliot Smith on the juke box. my choice.
and this corner isn't deep enough, altho i′ve managed to
melt it completely to me, tearing off wooden rim and afixing the
shine of treated wood to the damp and somewhat dislocated appearance
of a hitched up collar and pulled down brim of hat. (yes, hiding
takes more than one disguise.) i'm crying because Elliot is right
and he won't be back
to
sooth
the pain.

with all the parchment filling up fast with ink that′s
shuffled into piles that appear transparent if it wasn't for all the
blotted spots that, when gazed at, form a rustic shade of my face,
enough to squint harder and watch for lines from edges of my mouth.
stretched out backs of arms. these fingers bend so warm. wrists with
quiet strength. cords stand out on my neck, strained to a point. all
these words just to get my attention.

hello, there.

so now we′ve met. crystal shards to widow eyelids.
and all this time
we′ve been playing perception
to distant quotations
you uncovered while
sifting thru beach sands
as we sought to understand
these scars on backs of hands.

i′m tumbling down the lines of cars in Back Bay, heading to
(or coming from; anything′s possible) a bar that can only be secretly
described as silent. no one speaks. drinks in their hands. minds
capsized by strong eyes. not their own. oh, no. and in the distance,
i′m hearing shouts from the muffled ground below instantly surrounded.
drunken footsteps on broken concrete.
mind. what a mess. nothing is clear, just a jumble of words that
rises from floorboards long overdue for sweeping. a smell of
candles. (i used to kiss her bleeding eyes.) those were days spent
clenching fists and rattling eardrums. so here i am, shrinking in a
bar stool. let me out.

goosebumps and noted fingers climbing on icy trails along my back.
still from fear. stiff from freezing. they′re taking promises back.
they′re hurting each other. wait to sleep on it and see the size of
that puddle of regret before mopping.
so light takes its laps, to trace the city and swings it into
circles back and forth from, "i′ve seen bluejays on branches swoop
closer to forgiveness,"
to
"it′s all screams, you're not
accomplishing anything, just a fucking
decible level!"
intermixed with trips to the bathroom. to rerub mascara. to wipe
eyes. to evaluate the sadness on faces. to shake from emotion.
she slams a door.
he sits quietly for her to return.
i swill the last of my beer, swivel off the stool and leave.
what a mess: "Allison, this dialouge has got to stop; you've already
managed to yell yourself into histerics and i′m
running low on patience. listen, calm down and listen...
okay fine, as your are, but i′m not going to stay and
get screamed at for nothing...no, i′m not saying that...
i think we've managed ourselves into a tangent that i
don′t want to be apart of, so fine, go ahead and
yell and stomp and slam doors, goodnight."
(mom and dad have settled down for the night and i can only imagine
that mom is scared for tomorrow to come around and play itself out
just like today did and she knows that they are all all the same because
that′s something she can handle and it keeps her from being too
much involved and dad is sleeping because he is tired and she′s mad at
him for being tired because she needs him to change this whole
thing and he won′t talk about it he's doing all he can and if she
helps out and grows up a bit this whole mess could be cleaned up
and nobody will get hurt but they′ve hurt each other and are both feeling
defensive and upstairs i′m writing all this down and trying to calm
trembling hands that once trembled when i felt the soft outline of
Nicole′s back that warm belly under my hands and i've never felt
that before, she wasn't even my girlfriend, just a hot summer and
loads of conversation before i could even try, the sun is coming
up and my eyes are itchy my nose filled with her scent, the little
bit of perfume she had on earlier has wrinkled itself onto my
shirt my breath short and dreaming, older brother in the other room
little sister in the other room and i′m all out of ears to whisper to
so sitting in the shower with the radio blasting just to feel
different, pain nervous by what i see in the mirror altho i′ve
been looking for one all night and now that i′ve found one the
flushed drunken eyes aren′t offering what i need them to be
offering. oh, no)

dialouge to wipe that smirk off my face.
to peel the color from my cheeks.
to hold hands near mouth to hold back a scream.
and what′s with the hesitation?
and what′s with the posture?
and what′s with the searching out of line, just to prove a point?
whatever it is,
i′ve got to be a little closer to the truth. injured and
injected with emotion. i've been whispering lately.

spooky.

normally, i′m a screamer.

love,

adampomajzl
2.17.04
boston, ma.

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