She Yelled The Truth 5/2/15

The woman yelled. Her truth completed me. She was in another bedroom and went through me. I wanted to pay my ticket and ride her sound. She rounded up all my questions.

I was grateful, dry-mouthed and swallowed. I looked around to see the time. This was the first indication, I lead a charmed life. She broke out in a sweat.  J.F.K.'s death is the moment below this one. My self-portrait wants who I am now. She is in this room but I don't know the details. I show her where the clock is. She talks to me behind time's back. I notice she has two throats, one above her waist and one below. Anxiously I start humming. There's a wall between our utterances. My two hands discover themselves, sweaty and cold. I think she sat on my clock.

My mind stands up denying. I look for the time inside me. My bedroom keeps interrupting. Women have told me the story. They all brought their cameras with them. I try to remember the time I bought film. She says I'm photogenic. Instead I remember a reason for clothes. I know where the door is. Why was I told? I find myself holding some of the details. Quickly I drop them before she sees. Needing to put something in order. My hands will expose me to her. I want to complete the story for myself. She picked up a flat stone from my mind. I wanted my clock back first. She flung time, skipping across my awareness. I don't see her humor. I wanted the stone back in my mind. She threatened to make sounds, imitating time while talking to me. When will the skipping stop? She always ends her stories with the truth. I cup my hands over my ears and loudly speak first. She is taking my picture but not letting me pose. She is alive in the next bedroom. There is a wall that separates our stomachs. She takes charge of my hands. She makes them buy me a ticket. What happened to my charmed life? She shows me where my clock is. The wall between us becomes details. I have an ear below my waist, listening to her eye to eye. She comes with my hands and takes another stone from my mind. I order her to put it back. This relaxes me, keeping my hands busy, back and forth, her taking then my putting. Compellingly, she speaks to me with her mono-voice. All my questions are coming to her. I want to grab her by the throat. I can't find the film. The door shuts before I can hear who's there. I want to complete the story for myself. Suddenly the skipping stone stops. I grab for her clock imitating time. She is still the rhythm of her putting and my taking, still talking to me eye to eye. Her mono-voice tells me a story. She takes my hands about her throat. I still don't see her humor. The bedroom reminds me, I have no reason for clothes. I watch her clock with my ears. She breaks me out in a sweat. I remember to buy film. She always ends her story with the truth. The woman yells. These hands are mine. I find the clock. I complete the story, hearing myself yell an approximate truth . . .