FOUR
U4-P3
I am wide the fuck open with no intention or desire to close. The love comes with pleasure and peace that feels new. They live inside of me. And yet, they swallow me, too. From inside out I am consumed in Love and Pleasure and Peace and Power. That’s new.
*********
I wonder who it is speaking when my thoughts start to go toward what could go wrong instead of what is now. Which are good feelings. In my body.
U4-P4
I know a fear of being found
out in a war zone, destitute,
destined to become somebody’s
prey. This is not my memory,
but a living story pulsing
through synapses.
*********
This is the peace that
I’d been seeking since
I sat on that porch and
untwisted every crooked
story. I think I sometimes
long for that moment, feel
nostalgic about it, not
because the uncertainty
of it felt good, but rather
because of the sweet relief
in the unwinding. One of the
feelings that accompanies
love must be that of
stretching out, of tight
muscles unclenching and
elongating, of finding that
there are new ways to move.
What a blessing it is to
discover the magic of one’s
own body and the peace it
can know when swords are
layed down and the cannons
no longer fire in the direction
of home.
I don’t know why
it was war. I don’t
know why the only
way to appreciate
peace was to wage
an internal battle
and pretend
someone else
was the enemy.
Except it wasn’t
pretending at all.
The threads of
the story were so
tightly woven that
they could only
take the face of
a reflection, atoms
so densely packed
to make a solid
surface. So of course
I needed solid
proof.
This was a dream
some time ago.
Thank you to
whoever
imagined us here.
Sometimes I doubt
that you want us
here at all. But
I can let go of that
now and remember
that those directives
came in the midst
of war. But back to
peace. I can just
look up and see
a plant still living
to remember that
all is well.
*********
How quickly a truth can shatter with words spewed upon an entrance. Be careful of the shards, unforgiving, the tiniest pieces invisible and still sharp enough to break flesh. How shall we staunch the bleeding?
Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll drag our bloody bodies across every surface, stain carpets and sheets with crimson, leave spots on the walls. I’ve had enough cleaning for the day.
*********
So what lessons did we learn here? What futures did we masterfully build? Complexities of the simple. Reflections of the invisible. I’ve been resting inside of contradictions; there is no cognitive dissonance to be found here. Only embodied truths.
Digging out old wounds and facing the stink of putrid fallacies. I somehow still sit waiting, heart set aflutter by the ring of attention. Evidence of some retention of long-forgotten intentions. Releasing the all-or-nothing that was never explicitly mentioned but somehow formed the thread of an agreement.
What lessons did we leave behind? What futures did we unravel? The emptiness of all. The fullness of nothing. I’ve been resting inside of contradictions; there is no cognitive dissonance to be found here. Only embodied truths.
Their all and their nothing rest on rooted lies. Their thread, lightless. Their intentions, impure. These are not the roots in which we find anchoring. We have planted seeds elsewhere.
U4-P5
Some of it is me. Some of it is the way that I’ve been on my knees. Bending. Contorted. Persona-fied. Playing a role. The character I think can be loved.
What do we make of this barren earth where every seed has failed to sprout?
Today I repotted aloe. Put my hands in it. Put my hands in the dirt. Got my hands dirty. So that flailing, floating roots could become anchored, secure. I cupped old dirt and new in my hands. Poured water and prayed. “Please be more secure and grow.” Begging. On my knees.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t know.” Grace. There is soothing to come now that the roots have been anchored and the dead parts discarded. Not as in thrown away. But returned to the outside earth where decay is as natural as anything. The things growing in tiny pots cannot stand dead leaves for too long.
But in wide open spaces, the dead things are fuel.
*********
There is too much space for imagination in the absence. The tales I spin there are the voids that I fall through. What is about the eyes that makes me feel sure? It doesn’t hurt any less to see. But it always hurts less to know.
The absence is not seeing, not knowing. The ultimate ache. And all I do is poke at the spot until it’s bruised. Descending into the blues, the purples, the blacks. Falling through endless spaces.
The absence is nothing like walking through the rooms of my mind. At least there are doors there, familiar faces. At least I can wake up. The absence is an endless nightmare. And somehow insomnia too. Crashing at high speed, but never hitting anything solid, watery, firy. Just air. Too much of it.
Lay your swords down, love. Nobody needs all that imagination.
U4-P6
Maybe it’s me. And maybe it’s this impossible world we’ve created. Full of tangles and tethers and tightropes. There are no words to undo the damage. Lips crusted over with sugar won’t hide the taste of the lies I’ve swallowed. There are no words to spit out as an antidote to poison.
So silence becomes my friend. I quietly rub the knots that have me bound. I stare into glass and let my eyes do the speaking. Sad eyes. Sleepy eyes. Sighing eyes. Insightful eyes. Penetrating. Pensive.
It was never my eyes that couldn’t see. It was always the taste of the words. The thrusting of swords. The snapping of ropes. I will soothe every sore with a glance. With a silent code that only my eyes can understand.
*********
The Pattern
A whisper. A whiff. Then a whirlwind. That’s how they all come. And go.
The Question
A single sustained breath can start a fire from an ember. That same breath can extinguish a tiny flame. Have I forgotten how to breathe?
U4-P8
In the shadow of acceptance, there are fragments. Jagged bits of broken mirrors asking you to see pieces of yourself. In that broken place, you cannot see yourself whole.