Witch City

Witch City
Jess Mann
10-16-13

The bricks
give up their shadows
like the last gasps
of a throat garbed in rope
The shadows
feel the same
about their stories.
A grey cloud kneels
perilously close to the city
whose spires
claw at its gossamer questions
like fingernails glossed and chipped
tear at the nylon
over a painted
perfect
face.
Cheeks
hollow as church halls
echo
madly with the
shadows jostling
shoulder to shoulder
for absolution.
The gobble up the history
with erotic moans of bereavement
their entitled cameras
catching and rendering
every secret
every whisper
as firm as bone
as dense as clay
just as ungraceful
as they.
The bricks
reflect the shadows
evil pleasure at
the carnival of popcorn lights
and candy smile eyes
the shadows
draw their hoods back
for the kill.
They crack the necks
of every neon glowstick
every torch
they snuff voraciously
smacking lips
they suck the marrow
from the moon-
And what watery orbs
reflect the delicious hope
of light?
Two eyes
apiece
of naivete
and wonderment
and exposed raw nerve of soul
that crackles like a wire
split and writhing
pure life
half light
the bricks hold fast
their hatred
of the position they are in
a city built of mirrors
packed in red dust
and the spit of false tongues
their spell
forcing them to bear witness
again to the
collected
suffocation
of each
beautiful
flickering
flame.

A Rededication

Cowardice and Shame are two very close friends of mine.
They tend to travel as a duo, and where one lands first the other is sure to follow shortly after. They are ugly and crass and never where they belong, and definitely show up when I least would like them, which is typically when I am faced with the task of self promotion.

What have you been doing for the summer Jess?
You may well ask me that, as it certainly hasn't been posting content.
My "real world" job has kept me very busy these last few months, and on top of it, I decided I would train for a half marathon in September.
For some absurd reason, I find it easiest to quiet my mind during a long, challenging run. I was having difficulty finding any quiet time this summer, and so I literally chased after it like a hound for a ball.
What one does not take into account when undertaking the task of distance training is how much of the rest of one's life will be a slave to that goal.
I would awake in the morning with the grandest of hopes and plans. I would run, sometimes 6, often 8, and towards the end 11 miles at 5:30 in the morning. Then I would go to work for 8 hours. At 4:30 in the afternoon, when I got home, dinner was a thing that needed to happen, perhaps a visit with that strange and elusive creature known as "the husband" or in my case "the beard", and then, if something else didn't pop up, I would be able to sit down in front of the computer and attempt to bang out a few words.
Needless to say, the exercise was less than fruitful almost every single time and resulted most often with me face down next to the keyboard snoring.

This brings me to this moment, here, right now.
As the gorgeous season of Autumn closes in around us, I am releasing myself from the iron grip of distance training and turning my energies toward my writing again.
I know things about myself I could never have known had I not decided to run 13.1 miles on a cool, bright September morning, and one of those things is that I could teach myself to put things before my writing. I could train my body and my brain to make other plans, achieve other goals, and transform into an unrecognizable version of myself, but that is exactly what it would be.
My doppelganger.
A strange and unearthly facsimile of myself, which would retain my memories and personality, but with none of the artistic drive and sheer bloody minded creative madness which flows through my veins as thick and hot as my own salty blood.

So I see my two old friends, Cowardice and Shame, and I recognize that they are here to crash my party, so intimidate me into a corner and tell me I've had my fun, but now I made my choice, and I walked away from the pen and the page.
And I stand here today to rededicate myself to the fight.
I know how to be something I am not.
I promise you,
I promise me,
I will not give in to that temptation.

Words and stories need to be written and shared, and they are mine to give, and I am going to make my world about giving them back to you, patient, lovely readers, who knew, deep down, that I would return, that I could not deny this part of myself in the same way that I cannot deny the nose on my face.

Thank you for reading.
I promise to make it worth your while.