i will i will i promise i am alive. my life is a compromise to the sun my life is a promise to always be alive. my life is a ball of dreams and drifting feathers floating out to the new horizon. my life is evolution regenerating itself. my life is movement and glory. my life is grandiose and minute. my life is mysterious movements from the sun as it hovers harmoniously across the great balloon of green dappled earth beneath it. my life is silly strings, buttons and shoots of bamboo. my life is a dream without wheels aching endlessly for a subject. my life is a series of strings that all resemble a circle. my life is a bundle of neurons sold at an hourly rate. paid for the promise that i will be alive until the end of my end. when i finally meet the beginning.
it’s beyond a hundred thousand words named wind
its beyond the breaking of dawn and the bursting of bubble rain
Maybe i’ll write for long enough and sweet enough that you’ll come back to me. maybe i’ll sit here basking in my porch perch and you’ll just float right up the driveway wearing a worn-out car and a couple of old prayers for us to eat for dinner. maybe if I stay so still that no one can hear me, the ground will clear me, reverse all my refusals to repent and turn me into the sinner that smiles at the sun. maybe i’ll keep gulping down gallons of light until my skin turns just white enough to finally find itself. maybe all the pauses and pressures and polite stares into the sun will slither themselves through the roots of the roundness of flesh. maybe i’ll disconnect, connect back, double back, triple forward, push out, push in and find myself swallowed by all the skin God forgot to blade on my bones. all the skin that’s formed as trees and trunks of grass and wheels of wind and wheelbarrows of borrowed naked newness. There. Maybe I’ll be there. Here, I mean. I always mean here but I always say there because I’m always three feet ahead of myself and four feet underground and two tablespoons too in love with the wide wide arms of the sky. Here, you’ll find me, I’ll find you, and all dreams will dissolve like candy magic on the edge of my hedge less backyard. Backyard, that’s where I am. That’s the name of it. Pulling in. Pulling in the driveway, that’s what you’re supposed to do. That’s what I’m waiting for you to do. I’m waiting for the clouds to separate and place themselves to categories- to name themselves and grade themselves, degrade and derail and disentangle all their words from one another to get to the syllable that formed them. Cl- and -oud hidden in a shroud of what I’m calling them. What I’m “what-ing” them.
Some day my job will just be to take this all in. To take it all in to my bones and my skin and my limitless fire eyes and digest it. Send it like electrical currents through my body and give it back. Give it back in shards and whispers. In poetry, prose and something that resembles a washing machine for meaning. A wishing machine for worry. A worry machine for memories. A ten thousand truck army made of recycled bits of pieces.
There are so many ants crawling up the fence on my porch.
My story is a story about stories. Is a series of serious moments strung together inside of beauty. My story is about people and places and all the glue that stuck us together. The invisible threads that threaded our thoughts through the thoroughfare of thinking. My story is a story of adjustment, adaption, evolution and aggitation.