all i really care about is if i can see the glint of 3pm sunshine meandering through the pine needle canopy and how the golden light is pressing itself through chlorophyll on the side porch. all i want at night is to sleep on the screened in porch so that the swarm of insect chorus can lull me to sleep and rouse me with the new light. the friendship of singing swells. all the world really wants me to do is watch it. notice it. be with it. listen to it. and honor it. like a friend. like myself – in a thousand trillion pieces around me. the branch my sister, my friend, myself. and on to itself – the light – the thousand trillion pieces of light dancing rhythmfeet. bodies – like bodies of light // light – like bodies of death and undeath. like dream marbles falling out of the mouth of the sky // like rain bodies finding flight // finding light and light-ness and gravity // like gravity, like autumn, like 7pm, like yearning // like yearning is all we’re supposed to do – the only truth we’re supposed to swallow like light // like darkness is a river i am always swimming, like lightness is not a dichotomy but a body – like my body is always both at the same time – the river, the swimming, the rain, the evaporation, and where the river is a constant in a flood of variables and equations equating signs for symbols — like bodies — like shapes — like translation of form into meaning — like my body translating itself from light to shadow // contrast and lux making imaginary imagery immortal in mortality // like words pressed against one another like bodies // like shapes – you, me and the swell of the sound of an insect chorus in september ;; fading, cacophonous, resonant, signifying everything
I was wrong about everything.
no i can’t write about it
so my arteries are stopped up and my mind is chopped up
life is still hotfoot and flooded; busy / full / resounding
jamie is still pitter patter spitfire and full-blooded consciousness soaring
autumn is still approaching; hands-wide, mouth-open, sky speckled and darting
school is sanctuary ; school is therapy, healing, meditation
photography work is the dream ; challenge, learning, pulling, gripping, capture
music is everything
the play is fire ; fire is igniting me ; ignition is pulling me close
but i haven’t submitted any writing since april and the past 6 months of shows have been consuming and i need a break and i need to get back into my pocket and i need to finish projects and i need to keep tunneling up the mountain and i need to keep writing
and i need to keep my head screwed on straight and stare straight into the sun and not at the moon and not at the shoreline and not at the river and not at your heart just fucking here in my fucking hand and not at the season slowly closing and not at my phone gently vibrating and not at the screen piling pixels at permanence
just ride the bike, just ride the canal, just ride the water. just listen. just pull the trees towards you, tuck yourself in under their branches, tuck yourself in, tuck your self in
she used to be mine – sara bareilles
unexpected moments fall into your hands / like little boy in diaper running towards the twilit fountain / like you and i at peace – feet immersed in the water / like a strange sunset today that made nothing matter anymore / all forgiveness water, all painless time gone by / ripples, ripples and out / free from each other / neither bearing grudges, neither salting wounds, neither sharpening knives – just water, water, ripples, and watching little boy laugh in the light of the 9/11 memorial. two pillars of water galloping skybound. reaching. full of peace.
i am what i am what i am.
and what i am is a river.
and i am having trouble letting go again. ticky ocd brain is firing like a strange old ghost, rattling the neuron pipes. too much happening, maybe. twist off the cap again, resonate, sit, keep returning to little poetries you find on the side of the road. get his words out of your head. do not listen to the songs. do not turn on the fire. do not pass go. do not collect 200 dollars. kick it, kick it, keep your head above water. it’s too deep of a dive to take.
release, release. sit in the corner and let your leaves change color. it’s time again.
Carry your wound, carry your wound
Bury your wound, bury your wound
be wounded/firelight/capsized ribbon of sin/do not categorize your mud; sink
turn off the light / do not gaze / glaze over
and now the fall crawls towards me ; autumn hands like bedsheets, like linen and ash and muscle contracting. stone bones curl inwards, hurricane eyes flood skeletons of summer hammocks. the sunlight starts to shiver. the weight of color begins to hunger in the green canopies. bumblebees and busy-ness ; the buzz of horizons burning black. embers now, embers now. remember how to shiver ; remember how to clamour for heat. how to tap your feet together like dorothy in the chilled reminiscence of bare feet.
new words take tumorous shape within my brain now. new play to open, new theatre to prowl, to inhabit, to listen to. and moments and mistakes and retakes and gamble feet talking into focus.
new children who gaze at me sidelong and wide-eyed ; infant-handed and perfect-mouthed. little fears tucked behind their ears ; little dresses approaching their scabbed summer knees. little lives splayed out in front of them like a game ; like a memory ; like a toy ; like a play.
and little me and little you, and little story still hammering at my life like a memory ; like a game ; like a play // like a song.
keep singing to me.
my first boyfriend got engaged yesterday. and Bekah got married. and life rolls on. and youth dissipates. but does not scamper. peels. twists. contorts. and some of the faces are gone. and some of the faces are still there. and the things that endure – the people that endure – there is something wonderful there. about the things that get stuck in the wash. and the things that wash out in the river. that keep floating downstream. the faces of people gone by.
the hum of insect reverie slips through me. i am an opal of heat still rising into september. i am a ball of cotton sopping up humid dreams. i am still summer, i am still green. i am still wild – i still churn onwards.
and the best air is yet to come. and vultures can’t feed on my carcass yet – i am still flooded with fire.