Listening to The Revelator – Karen Solie

njudahlove:

Here is consequence, folding its wings
on the fence. Here are your chances. After years
of moving whatever you do
from one place to another in the manner
that constitutes your work, you have to admit
you know what you think. About tonight
not so much fallen as struggling to its feet, gorgeous
in spite of what it’s done to you. All
is forgiven. The loneliness composed on the road, after hours,
off-shift, out of it, or left behind, the vindictive
clairvoyance of local law enforcement, protracted
incidents represented by lacunae in your resume,
strategic negotiations pursuant to the project
of getting the fuck out of there, or making
the best of being stuck where you were,
in those rooms now creaking in a forest of outlived rooms
recalled as eras are recalled, their outmoded fixtures
and period costumes, motes afloat
in parallelograms of windowlight. Who are you?
What of you persists? Your life is built on intervals
the way a chord is, on changes that alter you
by thirds, by fifths, in silences the progression climbs
to where each song ends, and the next begins.