I think about you i do. more than i should. more than i know how to make sense of. you dream me into existence, i hold on to your breath with every silent crunch within my skin. we existed in a moment of a dissolving dissonance between sentances. we existed on no place in every plane in a surreal section of the galaxy. on a dying star. in the fraction of a moment between your heart and mine. a fragile, formless bird cawing wildly into the winter sun. collapsing, collapsing. we were always bundled in our winter jackets. we were always walking, standing still or sitting. we were always lying down, lying, lying. you always had wooden teeth, a crooked smile and one perfect top hat tilted to the side. i swore you must have carried a cane. i remember nothing but a romantic revelation rehearsed and refracted in my mind. i remember. i remember after all this time. i remember and i feel that well of fuzzy white tears billowing up between my eyes. i remember and i cringe, creak and cradle myself…and yet i can’t find you. i can find no you huddled in the mass of stars that is this world. i cannot find you when i look between all my swollen joints, my sallowing skin, my burned out edges. you hide. i call. find me. again, one last, forever. time.
I think I have words now. Mabye not the words…but words enough to speak, to splutter, to trn my head to the clutter of this gargantuan chess game and smile at the wind for the similes it gives me in the sun. Time enough to type, to walk, to utter a muttered syllable. Love enough to wrap my hands around, firm and taught yet full of empty space. Full of eyes that have stared longingly into the sea. Full of bones that have wearily cracked, fractured, twisted themselves into shapes and solitudes. Full of memories…the kind that beat under my chest and inside my veins and pull me…deep funneling criss crossed pathways back to the path. Back to the path. Back to the backbeat of the street…the hum of distant words, unformed names, barely tasted lullabyes. I have love in my cells, surrendered and solid. I have brains in my pocket and enough logic to form a riddle and feel it dissolving in my liquid mouth. I have swallowed poetry in fistfuls and in thimblefuls and I have loved you. I have loved you for many years now, silently, sweetly, heart breakingly an achingly.
I have always been wandering through the light trying to find a way to reflect off the stars.
I am swelling, swollen and dancing free and formless. I am young and in love. I am chocolate cake and morsels of madness. I am flirting with the edge of the world and always coming back up for new breaths of air. I am muscles and movement. I am prayers and precious patterns.
There is land here. One solid dirt road that leads from here to there and in between there is only everything. There is the silent heaving breaths of grass, the wearing waking dreams of hills and the cloudless sky of a thousand blue eyes. We wandered, we rode, we drove and kept driving until the pavement matched the heat of our hearts. Then we pressed on. Pressed further. Found the edge of the horizon and dived in.
Keep swimming. The tides roll in.
i have been writing, i think, since the beginning of time
and it seems perhaps
that no one and everyone is listening at all
that the whole world hungers and the whole world sees and the whole world
i cannot help it
i keep reaching out trying to find a way to fix it
trying to pray hard enough to god that i might be chained, and through y change, the whole world might unroot itself and learn how to love again. i keep eating and seeing and feeling in the hopes that my existence will be enough to count for something. to count up the pieces, to dribble up the wastes. i keep imagining i could write a novel, clear enough and majestic enough that it would send an electric shock through everyone and they would be alive again, but then the words never come. they never come. and it seems the only thing my brain ever wants to write is word flow. nonsense, fragments of poetry and prose.
and then i think who am i? who am i to think i can change the world or that i SHOULD change the world…or rather impose my world view on others who have a perfectly valid world view. and the world i would try to describe would be one of absolute love, understanding and peace and therefore that act cannot involve some sort of forceful juxtaposition through speech or silent infiltration through the guise of a narrative.
but then i am left again. staring at god’s world. and wondering where he is and why he is letting this world evolve in such a pattern. not even the killing, the shame, the drudgery, the silence and the sorrow. but the numbness. the unconditional unawareness. the vacuousness of voracious people hungry for the tips of their own tongues. and me too, greedy for more hunger. devoid of passion, life, dirt beneath our feet and meaning slicing our destiny together.
but then we must have evolved here for a reason, i suppose. it must have been time for the adventure to sallow and slide away, for our indigenous roots to curl away and for the
is always my quest for redemption too one-sided, one-dimensional and stiff?
why have i not been writing? it’s the only way to see through my dark fog. why don’t we all write? why did i lose my words? have i had nothing to say t wonder to explicate?
it seems a spinning wheel
it seems i need someone to talk to, to write to, to write at or about, inside my distorted narrative world words bounce back against the horizon, close me in, make me thirsty.
so am i then only an experiencer? a single solitary cube of emotion and pleasure to contain many infinite worlds, share sparingly some tiny drops of words at passersby…give love through handshakes and skin but never be wholly alive?
that’s what it is. sometimes, when i am fully immersed in a forest, or standing next to the ocean, i feel as if i am on the precipise of myself. something not fully human, but wholly alive. and i can’t ever quite get there. i can’t jump out of my body, i can’t leap out of my cells into the greatness before and around me. i get the feeling that will only ever happen with death. the great release. and i will suddenly be all things at once. i have a deep and corrosive faith in that idea. it’s not an idea. it’s as if all of nature all around me is constantly beckoning- reaching out its branching hands and toothless grins of grass saying ‘come’…’come back’…as if i am separated from myself, from my truth…as if i am living a half life trapped in a body bound by muscles, flesh and breakable bones…as if i am tormented by this insatiable hunger…like a strange and unwinnable game…as if one day i will finally be full. full enough i will never have to eat again.
but then i love this holding cell, this barrel of a body. this quaking fist of needs and neglect. this projector of blood and oxygen.
i have forgotten the who am i of the world and rendered myself useless to the question…what am i?
and the ever present why seems to pale in comparison.