So I've been trying to tell you, but I don't know, don't know if you understand the
shapes of things -
Do you know why it is that
cathedrals resonate so well? They're in thirds, taller than wide, with
arches at the top -
Do you know a
tuning fork?
A cathedral is in the same shape,
Each arch carrying
noise up to the skies -
You never listen to me.
And this silence, it's bullshit,
keeping all of the would-be tones in the depths of your
lungs with the alvioli.
It's a jealous thing, this
silence
and this
death
Do you know your body is
perfectly proportioned?
Do you know
Michaelangelo? He knew proportions.
Modern Artists don't, don't have to, but your armspan is your height perfectly.
Your foot is as long as the inside of your forearm.
Your hands fit around you;
once is your wrist
two hands is your neck
four hands is your waist -
Did you know these things before you put your body into the dirt?
Your
fingernails keep growing after you are dead.
They used to be afraid of being
buried alive because they used to find each other with
claw marks on the insides of
coffins,
and it was
paranoia -
I found claw marks on that space that is as long as your foot, and the one that your hands fit twice around,
And I am afraid of being buried alive,
with you, here
in this
school of mahogany,
of books half as thick as they are tall,
and
the body weighs just slightly less after you are dead.