It's not the stillness, the speed, or the possibility of slow. It's not the length, width, or the depth of this ark we build. It's not the what-ifs, or the we-wills. It's not in the details, of how the procession into our tomorrow happens. It's not our tomorrow. It's not how the beginning of this celebration will end. And if there's no end, though there's always an end, it's not about the beginning. It's not about the rules we don't make, or the ways we know too well, or about the ease of our desires and existence. It's not about the haves or the nots, or what's missing between our lines. It's only, only, our today. And only is what fills this ark, because anything else would be a burden for buoyancy as palpable as this. Only is a promise that can be kept. And what is anything, if it can't be kept? So I promise you only today, at a time, as a covenant to our May. It's only our November, and only is an everything I'd like to keep.
(to be read with 14:40 Walking Here, Two Shadows Went)
Do you know what it's like
to be pulled further from the sun,
wondering how it becomes warmer,
and why the roads you're on
stay lit up as clear as day.
Do you know what it's like
to feel the hours you stand on
take their holiday, the distance
between now and the next
measured by the imprint of his lips,
on your lips.
And seconds are replaced with
passes of his fingertips
'round the small of your back.
This is what happens
when the universe gets time right,
and when we're no longer dependent
on a sun to replace our carnal desire,
And when life is measured
by the shortest distance between each other.
Surfers know the strength it takes to let the ocean do its thing to your body as you find yourself sinking in its swallow. The chaos of natures mutilation only escalates when you fight the inevitable, the next ton of force in line to keep you below surface. And when you're finally able to find yourself out of the inside, and into the air outside, you inhale the assumption that this was a reminder that you've been wrestling with the Gods.
But the truth is in the exhale. We're all only wrestling with ourselves, in Gods backyard.
I may not ever get his name tattooed on my body, but I think I understand why people do.
Because it's not enough to have the feeling of being at home burnt into the ghosts of their breastbone and where the heart presses against but never quite pierces the skin. The tattoo brings life to the ghosts, makes human the pieces of our bodies. The thought of missing and the idea of forever are temporarily transposed into a ceremony where mortality isn't a misfortune, but an indulgence. How can it be so bad, that ink makes our dying cells permanent.
The mat that covered the bathroom floor, slightly dulling the echo, is gone. And it's also colder in here, not because it's empty, but because the few items that have stayed in my life have decided to move in an opposite direction, in angst of my directionless. And if before I move to where it's warm you should decide to close this door, with me on the side of the uncovered bathroom floor, I'll have nothing left but my echo - louder than what has left me behind.
It's as if the universe had turned upside down, and it's harsh winters had burnt over. I prayed for this day to happen. I prayed with my arms wide open, for happy to stumble into my life and turn it right side up, to burn the letters off these pages to leave this skin blemish free. But it takes more than prayer. And as it turns out, the letters where the dim candlelight on the road here. Happy prefers to stumble onto blemish filled white bones molded into books of us, in a universe turned wrong side up. And it's better that way, because happy is temporary and means nothing without the truest of us; pages filled with crooked words and dog-eared blank paper scattered throughout time. The real us. No one ever prays for an accidental stumble with truth, though we should. Wrong makes the right of us happy sometimes, and stumbling into the unknown is the sum of all of this beautiful catastrophe called life.