by David Foggo
At first I expected an answer. There was no doubt that someone would hear me knocking. The door will open any moment now because that’s how it works—knock and the door opens: on this we can all depend.
After awhile, I become interested in the knocking itself, not as a means to an end but a thing in itself. I vary the pattern and find the part of my knuckle that produces the most satisfying sound. I imagine there are ears on the other side, ears that are as amused as I am. I pretend this door is what I’m here for. I imagine I’m already there. I find the climax of knocking
then the situation begins to annoy me. enough already, just open the fucking door. the anger gives my knocking another burst of energy, let. me. in. LET. ME. IN.
before desperation sets in and i lean against the door, a broken knocker, pressing my ears to the dead wood, why won’t anybody open, why am i alone here
the rapping keeps time with my heart and i become the knocking, i am a knocking knuckle, the ghostly echo of yearning, a heartbeat detached from its sonogram, a question mark ringing in the cathedral,
and i forget all about the heartbeat the door my hands and what i wanted
i let the knuckle keep doing what it does but i don’t hear it anymore i’m beyond
through bone and wood
and sound i’m somewhere
else entirely
girl in the hat 
damn
I fear you (or at least the I/i in the almost-poem) may be in danger of skinning your (her/his) knuckles here.
Excellent, I was drawn to the knocking just reading and I was waiting for someone, anyone to open that fucking door lol.
Outstanding in tone, mood, and pacing. The Tell Tale Heart would beat faster over this story. Well done
Wow, this is great.
Wow. I love the minute breakdown of the knocking experience, the building crescendo… the unexpected twist.
It’s simple but it’s there in all the things not told.
The whole story.
A simple rapping and I only sit here trying to get the pounding out of my head while I puzzle over why the knocking? Why the never-giving-up pounding and tapping and what place through bone and sound and wood did that distraught mind wander?
Strong, this.
Journey is more important than destination.. Doesn’t this quote seem familiar with your experiment with door?
Ditto Gail !
As I read along… no.
As I was sucked into the vortex of your words, Lawrence on my right murmured “She’s wacked”. But I kept going, down into the depths and minutia of impression. That’s a world I seldom visit now, a world of fascination and rabbit hole harmonies, a refuge from expediency, necessity. Ziggy on my left gets it. Thanks, we need you.
You always leave phrases in my mind, like little postcards from a trip…
ghostly echo of yearning
question mark ringing in the cathedral
Maybe some could be names for a boat…
Knocking Knuckle
Echo of Yearning
Reblogged this on stephanie.
this is great !!!