‘Untitled #1’ by Walker Storz

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If I was my

father’s son

I’d grow up

strong, pure,

fleet

Silent in

a dark wood

disappearing into

the snow, my

identity

a lack of

tone, contrast

A mirror,

a canvas

A piercing brilliance

from the

sun’s glare

on snow,

the color

someone’s hair

turns when

they experience

a

great loss

 

This color

was a zero

degree

a negation

a mirror recognizing

itself

in a

mirror, the

color of ghosts

ghosts of conquistadors

ghosts of

masters

 

We came from

the North

relished the

austerity,

juxtapositions

were clear,

contrasty

we ate dark

bread, we

worked, we

were silent often,

like the blankets

of crystals that

dampened the

green wood

What was

there to say?

that hadn’t already

been posited

by the terrible

turning of

the planet,

of time

 

But I am

tainted,

impure, tortured

by my

impurity

I have sinned

I have been

not so strong

I have been

weak

Worst of all,

I have relished

it, relished

my pain, lived

in my stink

and my

weakness

 

Focalin Rose

was a symbol

for us that

year

a stained-glass

picture of a

flower that

we crushed

up focalin

extended-release

beads on to

snort, usually

crossing the

lines like an

ex

Focalin Rose

was a fast,

clean woman

more brilliant

than the sun,

hair lighter than

blonde, orphan

but not

a

mutt

 

Two years later

I marveled at

what I’d managed

to achieve in

conjunction with

my psychiatrist

The meds I was

on, when taken

together, were

the closest to

zero-degree I

could get

A perfect clearness

like empty

glass, was all i

felt, and a

corresponding

fragility

I truly felt

nothing, smooth

and in HD, just

a reflection of

my surroundings

1 thought on “‘Untitled #1’ by Walker Storz”

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