Your neighbors have received their invented lives. The slight pause before 1910 C turns off the porch light is the memory of her lover: at his age devoid of any definable trait other than willingness. Their photograph tucked safely in her office drawer. Her five-year-old is like all other children: monstrous; he brings with him dirt from outside and breaks dishes, spills drinks: intent disguised as impulse. A floor below, B watches TV through the whole night. He scratches his cheek: he is dying; and so he wants to know as much of reality as he can, measures what he is with what he sees. From their silence must ensue internal monologue; the brain isn't filled with static. But the neighbors don't exist; or they do, but they are always the same, and what is known of them isn't enough, lives obstructed by branches, leaves, rain, your lack of interest in the actual. The neighbors are an objective correlative, valuable only insofar as they manifest your desire for judgment, you the unmoved mover in your room. It would take an act of god to get you out. In Tennyson's poem, god is Lancelot, strapping and armored, unmindful of the damage he causes in her life. When she sees him in her mirror, she feels the world shoving her from behind, telling her the spool must fall to the floor, tower crumble. "I am half-sick of shadows," she says. She means it wholly. She obeys and promptly dies. Lancelot sees her body housed in a boat, the river silver with fish. He casts a prayer then rides into the afternoon with Guinevere. And so the warning sticks. And so when the rain doesn't stop and the flood swallows the wharf, the nearby strip mall, the roofs, they're going to have to drag your body out of your room. Your arms cling to the mullion. And when the city dwindles under darkness, your cat will gnaw the flesh off your bones.
Your neighbors have invented lives. The slight pause before the porch light is the memory of her willingness, tucked safely like children. From outside spills intent, disguised as impulse through the whole night. He is dying; and so he wants much of reality, is what he sees. From their silence: internal monologue. With static, the neighbors don't exist, but they are always known. Enough lives obstructed by branches, leaves, rain. Your lack of interest in the actual, valuable only as your desire for the unmoved mover in your room: an act of god. God is Lancelot, unmindful of the damage he causes in life. See him mirror the world shoving from behind the half-sick shadows: Mean it wholly and promptly die, Lancelot: body housed in the river, silver with fish. A prayer rides into the afternoon, and the warning sticks. When the rain doesn't stop and the flood swallows the wharf, drag your body out of your room, cling to the city. Darkness will gnaw the flesh off your bones.
Your invented lives pause before light. Memory, tucked safely like intent. The night is dying, and so much of reality is from silence: internal, static. The neighbors don't exist always, and what is known isn't enough. Lives, obstructed by your lack of interest. The actual, valuable only as your desire: The unmoved god, unmindful of the damage he causes the world, shadows the body housed in the river, silver with prayer. Into the afternoon, the warning sticks. The rain doesn't stop, swallows the wharf, your body out of your room, the city, darkness. Will gnaw the flesh off your bones.
Your lives pause before memory: intent is dying, and so reality isn't obstructed by desire. The unmoved god causes the world, shadows silver the body of your city, the flesh off bones.
Intent isn't desire. The world shadows the flesh off.