I don’t want to do it. I weary of man made holographs. Images that aren’t really there. Like the past. Screw it. A parlor game. An interesting talking point, but nothing worth going back to live again and even if I could the message remains the same. The new time out ahead is far more captivating, far more infatuating than those hours hanging in the closet, worn and washed so many times they’re ready for Goodwill. Save your time for someone else. I’ll spend mine. ♥
Leaves
A handful she picked off the ground. Burnished autumn crinkly and brown. “Leaves,” she cried ecstatically. “Look, leaves,” to her mother. Her father. Any one who’d care. She wanted the world to care, she cared so much. “Leaves,” as though she knew all about gold. I know about everything and I don’t care. All I want is leaves same as her. ƒ
Terminal Velocity
If I had only known how long it would take to fall in love with you I would not have waited. I would have fallen straight away and fallen thrillingly without wanting to open the chute yet knowing if I did not it would all come to a sudden end. So I declare to you now I love you and won’t let another moment go by without being better at it than ever I have been before. Oh look, how fast the ground approaches. They’ll say I am the victim of some hopeless tragedy, but what do they know? They’re standing on the ground looking up. I’m the one falling faster, faster and faster. ♥
Liberation
If I were a prisoner in a cell for crimes I committed or innocent of all charges and if the keys to the door were there inside with me on my side of the bars and if I did not take them and open the door and walk free I would be the worst prisoner. I would be my own jailer, executioner and victim. ♥
Time’s Up
I wind the clocks. I need more time. Things run down. I wind the clocks. I set the hands to make it right. Time gets out of hand sometimes. I wind the clocks. I don’t know what the day will bring. The clocks don’t mind. They face the unknown stoically. Their hands empty to receive the unexpected and inexorable. I wind the clocks. They run down. Another clock runs within me. It won’t tell me the time. I run to meet it and answer the alarm. ƒ
MIA
They left me for dead. Wounded. Blood. Everywhere. My own. It scared them. They ran. Good. Let them. I lay. Crawled. Gripped the dirt and pulled up on rocks to crawl up to the next. Pain so great so much like God it became a friend. I talked to it. Spit my name. More blood came. Then the answer. Death gave up. I stood. I walked. I ran. I flew. I lived. Now they fear me. They always did. Spirit now. Flesh and blood no more. All gone. Invisible. Indivisible. Invincible. I’d be scared too if I were them. ƒ
Inevitability
A man must believe in more than death or dying. What might that one thing be? Love, of course, inevitably. The fountainhead from which all life flows or otherwise what flows is mere vanity or nothing into nothing and doomed to nothing more save its own reflection which repeatedly is nothing at all. Love gives life and only life gives eternity. ƒ
Hour Glass
Stare at Death. Go ahead. Face it. Look deep and watch the reflection and the sand. See how they flow together in a heap all by themselves ever downward, dissipating and irretrievable. Unless and this is all in all, you reach out and turn it over, the whole device and all its contents. As and in so far as life remains within you, that elegant fluidity both liquid and solid and spirit you take hold and resurrect the finite portion you are given over and over not in futility but triumph, not in resignation but revolution as the earth revolves around the sun and the sun burns out and you become the star. ƒ
But Not Out
I want to go home, but not in a box. I’ve seen my father ride in one and his father before him and the women who loved them, all carried like babies in a cradle to their final resting place. Not me. I want to go there. Know I will inevitably, but not so calm, so still, so all used up. I’ll sail there naked and dive off the bow into waters cold, clear and deep and swim to shore like a man in a woman and there and only then you can put me in a box. ƒ
Aria
Where do voices come from? They come from you and me. They come from us like foam upon the sea. Our deepest thoughts and passions, occasionally a truth, expressed through our voices. Living proof. Sing to me of gladness. Sing to me of mirth. Let me hear the still small voice of love. ƒ