I can’t believe how the sacred finds me. How the sacred colored hues of the earth and the sky peel towards me like an entire history written and rewritten without words. I can’t believe the stretch of ocean beneath my feet. The rattle claw lobster head of the cloud jetty that is seizing towards me on the horizon — the endless sacred unfolding that twirls around in a circle with the rotation of the earth, not forwards on some blind, human line. It goes around on an axis, the wheel of this life, you silly thing. Not a linear line. We need more strange shapes to our stories, words, conscious expressions. We need more of that place beyond the words. We need more of the indescribable color of the history of the world sitting on the horizon each night at sunset. Those answers. Those answerless answers which hug the mystery tight and see the words written right in front of our faces. We need more recognition that we created our language – arbitrary, pulling sounds out of the wind and the way our mouth shaped against the air that bounced off the rocks around us. We need more acquiescence to the rhythm of bottomless song.
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?
adjust to the adjustment of justice never sitting just with you // with the world strung out like a lullaby in reverse ;; with the fire of indecision sitting like a bullfrog in your stomach – croaking out of key and at all the wrong moments / acknowledge the restless build-up inside your intestines, how the sky plays with the lid of the brain – tipping off the top, ripping off the rot — pulling you towards that longing of satisfaction – of the life that makes sense, of the life that equates out in all directions.
things don’t necessarily equate anymore — add up, ring out, roll up into the same tiny sleeping bag case in came in. the numbers don’t equal anything at all. i’m not lost or losing, just on the underside of a chaos of addition. how to get from a to b to c is nowhere in the alphabet anymore, nor do i even know what letter i am racing towards. but i keep racing. and i keep walking. and i keep dancing. i keep dancing towards pools of light and the love that pills in and out of them. i keep dancing towards the alphabet and the hope of making a word that can be read. i try to remind myself what it is i am trying to build. i try to understand what it is I am trying to build, for that matter. i flood towards the light and hope my moth wings turn into butterfly’s wings. or hope that i am contented enough to be a moth.
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.”
and your rage like a fire in my throat; my twittering bird’s wings fluttering in the shade of your black temple. i stand, the firmament / you rattle the cage // the meanness of intention slicing through the atmosphere / daggers displacing gravity and the molecules in motion around me
i lean in to the friction of the light, the courage of boldness in my bones that reaches towards the higher self, towards the deeper love, towards the love we all must have for one another. i find that love never fails, in any human, body or blanket of cells / i reach towards friendship, towards the lust of reconnecting atoms flying away from one another in space / i reach towards breath, i reach towards myself / i find myself staring back at the end of my hand, myself, myself. you’re okay, bundle of atoms. i pray towards wholeness, towards people that lift other people up, towards finding the best in one another, in each other’s words, in each other’s intentions, i pray towards wholeness.
lift each other up
“They sang don’t waste your hate
Rather gather and create
Be of service, be a sensible person
Use your words and don’t be nervous
You can do this, you’ve got purpose
Find your medicine and use it”
and here the ice rattles towards me like a promise. here the tree sparkles its ancient eyes like flecks of gold and silver hulking away from the branch. and here i see you again. and here i see you again. and here the minutes that live inside of my eyes pass like endless webs – like a melody in reverse, back again, back again, the words akimbo, like soft soldiers looking for a war. and here i break towards a new day, towards an endless horizon; here your eyes are like a patchwork of ash and curled nevers; stuck inside the sideways partitions between seats in a row; here you lie inside the little theatre of my heart, forever playing scenes we’ll never write
but the delivery of these half-imagined lines still kills me
DYFS in the dining room. whoever thought my life would get here? whoever thought i would be inside of these kinds of days? whoever thought my life would unfold like this – a bag of marbles and a rolling set of ramps and bridges — i submerge myself in the bathtub, all the way under the water, i know not how this day arrived on my doorstep // i peel back my curtains, i know not what i am supposed to do, but place one foot in front of another forever and ever, thanking each day for each splay of beautiful moments, thanking the light inside Jamie’s eyes for still glowing, thanking my feet for knowing how to walk, feeling my skin getting thicker every year, every day, every crisis / there is always more life coming for you, and there is always more strength within you you haven’t met yet /
i pray to keep you safe, little one, i pray you will not be damaged, you will know wholeness, you will not be afraid, you will not cower, you will not flinch upon approach, i pray you will stay alight through the dark night and all the flames ahead
always the ever-flow of a cup of tiny lights bursting in the atmosphere, hazels and pinks and blues and something like music, is it all a concoction – a confection, a sensory hummingbird humming away at my heart ;; am i a curling page of some unfolding place i am supposed to always be or am i always the ever-flow of an overflow of a cup too small to hold it all in / too small to hold it all in — i runneth over, i, herculean bit of verbal eye language and saturn-ed arm twirl – i turn towards the sun and i let it collect me like light, reverberate me like sound, tilt me forwards towards the tilt of the earth — i try to tilt with it, align myself with the axis, but the thing keeps turning, and the thing keeps turning, and i am too small to hold it all in — and i am the ever-flow of a tiny cup of lights reflecting sound, not holding on to the ground, all atmosphere, all september rain, all cobble-stoned heart and fire-brimmed body – always formed but never finite; always the ever-flow
I do it to make my heart full ; to make the empty spaces full of light / i do it because i can’t fight the love i have for it – because i feel like a whole person when I’m lost in the rapture of the stage / of movement / of colored lights and measured notes / to feel an organ breathing – a dozen people breathing in time, sculpting over a ball of air ; listening to the sound of the universe, responding with something to say, creating in the air – in the space between air and word and intention and retention and tension of musculature and heart ;; i do it because i ache to do it
the days turned in to battered rainfall, your life kept hiding in pattered wings, fluttering about, we’re all talking to butterflies now, my dear ryan.
your heart peels around mine like a curtain, we make promises to the way humidity feels on our skin, i curl backwards through the trees, the hunger for the sun and season holds fast on the leaves;; we take the reprieve of heat, we bottle it, we keep it tucked in our front pocket, we keep all the other pockets free for leaves and acorn caps and droppings of the season coming slowly towards us.
i call towards creation, i wait in the kitchen for it to hurricane over to me – i inspire myself with the movement of my heart towards words laced in love, i follow myself towards something somewhere that can teach me how to know remember how to let go, to find the answer to the questions of the current unfolding ;; of curious and curiouser – of the moments that don’t seem to make sense at all, at the frustration that boils like a furnace — i try to find the silver lining, to remember to flip the world on its head and shake up the snow globe, let it rain plastic trapped bits of white – i try to remember to flip myself, stop thinking of myself, look at the upside down roots of the tree, find an answer that i can live with ;; i wonder whether i’m creating it out of thin air, or if its sitting there in plain sight and my eyes are too weak and narrow to see it yet, curling into the bark – a few hieroglyphs of untranslated answers — i wonder how it all works – me and the sea and the trees looking back / i wonder how i work; my messy brain that keeps misfiring or re-hiring the old tired managers to come send the old foggy neurons down the wrong paths (the paths of least resistance, those comfy, soggy brain paths) ;; i amaze myself at how easily i forget all the ‘wise’ things i think i know at my clearest moments ;; i amaze myself at how easily emotion rips through the new brain paths i try to forge – a little icepick in my hand and a wall of solid brick in front of me // i keep trying, i will keep trying, i keep trying to stay more and more aware, conscious – light that brain up without fear; a glowing lantern leading the way, healing the fray, resounding towards the new day
in the pine river root – in the gurgle on east hampton, the sunlight streaming through the willow barren weeping branches pointing towards sag harbor – sagging away from the seashell sentience, the sentence searching for the subject, the plan planning on parting away from the partition – the part of the harbor still hankering towards the horizon, words recycled recycled and cycling towards vintage bikes, handlebars gleaming in the august glare, the fire of new york city come to exhale for an inexhaustible moment. oxygen in the waves; oxygen in the air; hungry rock cobbled driveways, curled nightmare spindle drive turns at midnight; satin storefronts, pale in the glow of summer light, pale in the lace framework of bare shoulders and martini glasses, champagne chinking against the sunset, pearlescent laughter giggling off the grass and the grain; the growing, the growing /
oak graciousness;; and here the endless haze of light moves through the wild grasses like a parade of elegance, like a twirl of countless counted moments — sand in the every crack, greens in the fullness of viridian ;; here the little highway splinters through the city’s teeth // a series of bridges and other man-made steel bones — and here the firmament of wealth spills like rubies, like shoes made of porcelain, like cream-rich oxygen for sale; and here we breathe privileged breaths.
and here i am, september first on the dotted line, on the river twine, on the apple-lipped choke of a season about to peel // here i am at the bravery of newness, at the weakening of green, at the hurled invective of the sky about to seize with color and movement;; here i am beginning again, here i am becoming again, here i am – a wish of a new morning
To let the August air waft around me like a thousand brittle eyes:: seeing; everything and nothing all at once ;; to let the windmill of flower scent come petaling towards me like a destination / to say I am here / I am here again // to feel the chips on your shoulders, to let them become grooves, shallow graves for any sense of judgment your ego ever wanted to hold on to ; to release, to always release, to work on learning how to know how to learn how to release ;; Something is always trying to hold on ; something is always trying to let go, to lift the latch up, to ratchet against the gear valve, the jammed wheel screw wrench socket; you have to lift it up before you can release ; you have to push it yourself ; you have to use your neurons to push against the hard iron weight of gravity in your brain ;; The little latch on the gate : you will nudge it, it will budge;, your brain will not want to but you can release it, with a tissue clock force of your mental elbow grease, you can knock it, with the right little left little neuron hiccup ;; little teacup full of fistful full of willpower; full of sunflower ; full of reaching ; full of sunlight, full of brain reaching towards the rain, towards the sunlight;; plants grow against gravity too; you can pull towards the sun like a bulb, like a flash of elegant effot; you can try;, You can try to try ; you can convince yourself you are trying and that is it — that is the simple trick on the latch : all you have to do is try to try to convince yourself that you are trying ; to release yourself ; a sunflower ;; you can breathe yourself there, to a place where you can believe in beginning; you can release yourself there; the valve is a gauge, your heart is an animal, your strength is in the surrender, your power is the willingness to watch the day around you like a masterpiece of air and grass sentience and the sentences in between the trees ; in the breath between your ego and your will, in the life burning in your stomach, and the unrest you wrestle out from inside your soft tissue of a brain puddle ;; and from (fuck the brain) the inside of your chest;; the lacework of your ribcage ; the motor of your lungs ;; you can release, you can release, you’re ok ;; you’ve got it, the air has got you; your lungs have got you
Your brain is just a little thing, you see – and you,, you are a wild thing growing towards the sun
brain so hot, wires so frayed, muscles so weak // but heart so full and mind so wide and love so deep and screams so reverberating, and bodies so rich with so much to give, to offer, to pour out, to funnel in all directions at the same time;; wild abandon ; the rapture ;; the animal drumbeat that fills your feet up with fire ;; to the parts of yourself you never knew you’ve never met yet – to meeting those parts of yourself on the stage, in the arms of others
how many more times do i get to be blown away by the wild unfolding of magical momentousness // how much more does this life have to enchant me with? when is my turn enough? how come so many don’t get to bask in the beauty of loved ones that laugh around you in a resounding song ;; i am too honored, too grateful, too astonished at the wild world and my gift upon gift upon gift of the magic of love and the joy of creation that floods the world around me ; that i get to stand in it – in the glow of mutual creation, of collaborative vulnerability ; of hearts held out like balloons, bright to the point of bursting, and unafraid to give
grateful i am ; to the rage and love of musculature and grit ; to the fire-burned capsized hearts of fullnesses tipping over ; to the echo song of stereophonic ferocity that blurs the distinction between body and bliss ; and movement and dance ; and music and rain — to the fearlessness of rapture — to the rapture of leaving your heart on a stage — to the blood i still get to carry, that runs hot with rage and with love / to the ability to create art / to the art that creates us / to the creation that keeps wrapping around you in silent harmony / to the harmonies we all sing for each other / to the ways we fill in each other’s broken bones, our shattered skins, our bruised knees / to the way we support one another, little seedlings planted together // i will never stop being grateful, i never want to forget the gratitude i should have buried in my ribcage, lacquered over my lungs, singing out of every note / that we all got to do this together, that we got to create, that we got to grow in love, that we got to rage and love / thank you for this, thank you for this, thank you for all of this
“our energy would simply prevail”