The landforms carve out of the ocean like a ribbon of dotted wishes along the coast. The keys play out of tune and in all the right places. The keys peel off from their country like a beautiful array of fuck yous – a tidy sum of rainbows distancing themselves from the madness of the motherland. The everlasting wind blows taffy hair all about the island – purpled and pinked pops of truffula flowers announcing themselves on the street corners. The wild roosters knowing no bounds. the freedom of the island is implicit – it sinks into the smoke-filled bars, bras and dollar bills affixed haphazardly to the ceiling and walls like a wayward bridge to the endless horizon. Something sacred hangs in the sub-tropical abandon ; in the hard liquor and white, angling 2nd story porches. the pastel creams and lilac shutters flutter in the wind like a wild, peaceful fever ;; the coral bones and chunks of sunken ship debris ; a rebel patch of land floating away from its rebel of a country ;; the half spun dream melody of a twisting madness or a bobbing wonderland
the mythology of treasure, of great men writing in rowdy dive bars, of mermaids and horror stories ; of key lime sweetness and rainbow revelry ;
now the pop of palm-tree fizz fades out into the distant atmosphere – the radiant gaze of spinning leaves twirls towards the storm-filled sky — we are inside of the florida haze, the gathering sideways crawl of a thundercloud and a windchime passing through the sideways ball-eye of the great blue planet — a huge bubble waiting to pop in space;; suspended in the great empty blackness — protruded by the delusion of light to cast blues about — the sky, the ocean, the reflections of reflections of hues created ;; how come we call ourselves the blue planet, when all the blue is a mirror image of a mirror image of a painters creation of hue light – striking sunlight through the atmosphere like a promise (to keep reality stable, at the very least) — the blue never leaves, never tilts, never abandons ;; me on the other hand – littered with garbage from past lives and unable to recycle any of these plastics — the pieces of brittle plastic love buried in me that will take thousands of years to decompose. oh lovely, a quick google search reassures me that plastic will never truly degrade. magnificent — chock full of each other forever and forever we’ll all be — so sure in this moment that we want to make things that last forever // so sure that the blue reflection of scattered faraway, ancient sunlight will keep holding reality together long enough for our plastic shovels to be worth it to dig ourselves out of the tiny sand castles we build next to the waves — but the big mirror-blue ocean waves keep crashing like laughter at our small selfish hands ;; the plastic shovels keep getting washed into the unfathomable depths of the ocean — careening about with the deep-sea-black-light-luminescent-magic-seeing-eye fish at the bottom ;; the barely-seeing-eyes that the tiny plastic shovels slide past in the darkness; that never-ending-seeming abyss. but the ocean waves keep laughing. because (unlike space and the endless old sunlight) there is a bottom to the ocean. there is a rock bottom. there is a tub that can be filled. and we fill. and we fill. so sure in this moment that we want to make things that last forever //
the heart that tears at the seams;; peels and purges itself — the heart that batters the rain, weathers the veins of the earth, peers through every open ventricle – vehicular everything;; finely tuned manner of mannerless measurements towards the manic love of living — with fresh air and fresh dirt beneath me
but you, everlastingly in front of me — the pain of the sidewalk everlastingly spreading in all directions
Of course, she says,
No other way could this possibly have ended
No other way could my heart feel the bitter taste of regret so violently
Other than you dropping the phone at the end of the line,, an endless plastic line of webbing drawing all of the fools to the table
You didn’t do anything wrong, you say; I say
I capsized first you, drawing the end of the life raft towards you like a blanket — I always knew I say;; your words tip like the finality of a star feeding itself with its own fire — the metaphors are strong here, the words are weak; the magnetic force is quantum;; neverending and pink
Of course, my heart would butterchurn and evaporate at the sound of your footsteps walking away- how could I never not always know that? Of course, my mind would splinter cell and cut all the corners ;; how could that not be laced into my DNA?
And this trauma too – will it too be laced into my DNA? Passed down the endless line? When do the chromosomes bend back in armor and fold over in rebellion- new patterns and arrangements the strongest fight there is;; when does it wash out?