Single Life Spans

"Right now I’m just spreading seeds. Some may sow and many will not." He told his friends such.  With Wisdom. Loudly. And his therapist too. Lonesomely. She understood. Actually.

Secretly, he thought, "I'm a withering seed, somewhere out there, underground and quite probably in my own backyard. A seed that just isn’t taking to life." Well, last night contained a happy sprout who descended hither to have a talk with a seed and its leaking life.

She informs him in a supremely private space that she is taking to life. She is indescribably bright. She dances and smiles often. And then she gives the losing seed a really big cuddle about the hard truth. That he isn’t quite taking.

She says she is flattered. She says he is sweet. She notes the scent of plum in his dry humor and his ability to dance so no one feels comfortable. The causes for thinking so. For being nice.

“I’m already married," she says.

"You're a rare bird. I'm glad I asked."

The dying seed will receive instructions in an email about what to do with his decomposing matter. Compost and pension plans. In a few generations time, the seed will take its experience of not taking to life and dare to become a big thing and a beautiful thing. That will touch the sky, as sentimentalism would have it. All humans will rejoice in its presence. It shall run $3.95 at the local drug store. Just you wait.

I really hate to tell you the ending so impulsively, but this seems like the right time: We win. We are all butterflies aging faster than rocks, but slower than single life spans. We're spasming and breaking up. Waiting to get nature's number done on us. It's a cocoon we don't even know about yet.

Crawling for now, we're getting together. Maybe not owning the day, but definitely the night. Like last night. A big win.

I can actually dance. I can actually hear no.

The night was 74 degrees. No jackets needed. You can either wear pants or shorts. Dirty sneakers or hiking sandles. I never know how to spell sandles right. And you might never be uncomfortable on a night like this. But I tend to think that I will. And when I dance, I hope that you might be too.

And let's not hold back. It will take the damages of war the same amount of years to heal as it took to fight the fucking thing. This is a simple and hard truth that most people don't want to face. That is because it might take another human history for people to altogether stop killing each other. I'm talking about taking to life. In just two-hundred thousand years.

This is the type of news that has to be broken to you by a dancing underground smiling sprout. After delivering the hard news, with shiny whites, she will add that it should start today. The not killing. Starting today.

Her lips look firm and her voice sounds the same. And I leak and I crawl and all no's become yes. "Just you wait."

Order of the Roses

They trim the Tyler Roses at the Capitol.
Down to nubs. Every February.
Just a week short of the holiday.

That holiday, a few weeks passed,
fell on the side of mercy.
At least this year.

I continue to nose in on them.
Nothing to smell. Yet twice each day.
A loyalty previously unknown to me.

What I've begun to notice,
as workdays stumble into March,
is the first thing rose bushes grow back.

Their thorns.
The stems, now smacking with assurance,
sprout leaves next.

Asking the sky -- expectant and green.
Hearing the answer -- blushing reddish.

The order of the rose bushes:

• Fierce necessity
• Sway and be patient
• Expect that brilliant day

The order I have been craving.

So I amble in a serpentine pattern back to my desk. 

Fixing my gaze on the Four O'clock sun. 

And all the while, setting expectations.

Fishy and the Kosmos

This time he is trying to guide his thinking away from, “I got one.” Casting last bait, and wondering means how—enduring visions of her getaway on a loop. 

Because together they might come, but she will go like late day sun, if thinking like the fisherman who caught one too full of fight to stay.

Before him, he ties together, is this lovely creation “not far off from me.” Two creatures that see with eyes of a “striking blue,” and so are often told. And two that hold regard for wonder, and sing its praise slightly off-key.

She had once said her fake fingernails made her feel pretty and so now he wants to be one. Same time she offered up a nibble at dusk, when the blue eyes met. But soon another nibble in the weeds would obscure her look, slightly suggestive of maroon.

Sure as sun sets, red toenails sink into she-says smelly shoes. She told him she digs hands and how he touched each time with two. In secret he knows of his tendency to forget what hands are for. Not just entangling and untangling; in these matters, they are intended for much more. 

Disguised as a goodbye wrapped with caress, at last Fishy's hook hold wriggles undone. And off she swims, for the sinking sun, for the coming light, her eyes transposed with full moons. His memory of  absorbs her waves trailing behind; that refeeling of her long slither go. 

Thoughts fight back as they please while the moon takes the path of least resistance—how the celestial crows fly. Slumping shoreside, the man's eyes fix on the water's moment to moment uncertainty.

The mood is constant but with a chance. 

He summons the tenacity to consider if ever that fishy rose to surface, and lost fight in these two salved hands, then soft-lit circles might ripple out perfect. Like rulings made by moon. 

So the Kosmos be.

Break Up Song

Here is the sheet music to the tune I can’t hum. A composition of your
personality missed, sounding with mine. The traits that make our fates. I
sound this out not in sorrow, nor in hopeful revival, but as the recognition I want
to not fail at making again. Our harmony, which once existed.

I imagine your light fingers on my shoulder, at the ready.
Digits strumming reminders that I am the song.
I am its source. Guts attached from the neck, sinew strung across the belly.

Vibrations flooding my chest, carefully arranged with capacity for hearts.
All finished by glazed-over male hips and coarse-haired bowlegs that splay
into feet—with longish toes. Though not as long as yours.

The details in design are no longer this song. If we were to address the untended
to parts, they would appear to be just that: untended to. We own separate
kidneys and livers for sorting this out. Bendable skeletons house each of our vitals.
Each needing separate resting spots and separate vitamin bottles.

And yet, it's the tune of each other that can't play apart. Nor quite together.
A disparate sound. Driving the mind. And it needs attention.
Constant and careful. 

Our song could swell, or: admiration may not rehearse that day.
But it's just like they say—without pressure, there are no diamonds.

Late April

There was a plan to talk
Around It, over It, through It
And to savor a sympathetic ear.

Because whatever It was, boiled hot.
And you could hear its steam whistle,
even from a comfortable distance.

There was every reason to think
that there was a problem.
And so they walked to the creek to talk.

They did end up talking,
about water,
and he later gave some thought to it.

“Water that is clear and deep,
And can stay wtih you,
Is rare to find.

Water that dares not alter your path,
But can stay with you,
Strikes me as courageous.”

This water soothed the boiling, and quieted the whistle.
And this water sprouted a terrified, trembling seedling
That seemed in no condition to survive.

A seedling too fragile. Too exposed. Too unsure of its roots.
It sprung across the mouth of a man who insisted
That something he could say might make its longing go away.

But the water insisted back, just then.
And the seedling was met by her clear and deep glance,
which seemed to say, our plan to talk about that is not for today.

Only the bold can teach the bold, and only with ears.
And what he saw was her whole heart giving to listening.
And what she saw was his courage to tremble.

And what the water found was something rare:
Two people sitting in union with its master plan.

Jaws of Life

Sure, the minds don't do anything but fear. Still, you can see one impossible glint cutting through their fogged up eyes. You sense a presumptuous faith and so commit to their broke down lives. And they say, "All's about I am right now is here." And you tell them, "Perfect, it's all just heart from here." You tell them, "Don't be scared. I know a smile feels more than far." And you say that the laws of people behaving are bigger than they are.

You tell them it no longer concerns the particulars you may think of you, but that the laws apply to them too. And that it's safe and free, to only be here. And you let them know how much bigger everything ever was than that little mind they fear. Even while out there, battling life's laws with an appetite for anything near. Beyond me, beyond you, and beyond us lies this Great Fact, which ever will be.

And first you tell them the bad news--that they no longer get to be who stands before me. And then you say the good--that the entirety they never saw, the light sky beyond the dark tunnel they are struggling through, it loves you, see. I can show you the way out. And then the sky. And shocker it was to me, it will be to you: see, it loves you. And I truly mean that, broke-down friend.

I'll be the first to concede that this kind of love's tougher than any man could bear alone. But you will behave in small monthly payments--a new lease renting to own. And then, in carefully minded increments, you will own It. And then there's the matter of the sky...Well, some days it will just feel so goddamned close.

So look now, here's my outreached hand. You have ideas about cheer, slipshod fears, and enough regret to fuel a rocket eons away...In my most plain voice, hope is where we begin. Drink ice water. You can't smell nor taste it. Drink up. Touch your calloused hands together, and lift that swelled up tongue. Pray. It won't work, but do it anyway. Wiggle your ears. There's a frequency so near that there's no way you will hear. But put that mind on firm notice: "There shall be nothing today."

There's no such thing as a prowess that can Unmangle the mangled. Nor can just one illuminate a tunnel. We have clumsiness. We have flashlights. We have each other and salutation--and don't forget about that sky. A sharp-toothed glint, drawing shallow breaths beneath story-cracked skin, shines its way through--somewhat resembling a grin.

yes, and...

We don't give up on our dreams, no. but we've seen enough to see what's happened before, to those who un-tether their life lines and aim for the sky. they float away, gradually deflating into disappointment. they may have purchased a lie. Sold in every corner of their Mama and Papa's belief in them. In america and on the pictures, and in the schools. the lie of our own brilliance, not yours. they do it and float on and not know where they are, but maybe by a sound coming off a speaker or a phrase a teacher spoke. A teacher they now feel ambivalence for. Go and float to what you thought of you, yesterday. They float take some wounds, leaking out an essential air. Picking at well-intended scabs, thin-skin hardens, callous over "these times" so unfair. because faith's not there, healing not here. And I'll tell you why, it's because on this flight there is no fucking way to steer. So whimper out, sink in soft whines, but at too high a distance to touch back down--to reconsider. Some can touch again. Guilt can bring you back. Joy. Sin, resolve of goodness. Some other girl did it when you couldn't decide. Or simply, decimated pride. Nobody knows the how, nobody can re-sing the song that commences inside. Some get gifted the want to play along. To ante up and discover the value of responsibility. The lucky ones have babies. Or hurt too deep. The lucky ones get left with no choice in the matter. Get the anime, elan vital, the verve, with sparks and all. How's it come? All things considered, what makes Johnny run? Lips no longer serviceable. I mean, here we stand got two feet rough ground steady eyes, deep-focused. Limited for sure, but still can take us pretty far. Not knowing how far. Not knowing where to. But once we get there, we know we'll be able to see further. No longer sorting through used copies of the "Myth of the Straight Line." Here we stand, considering the vast burden of others. Here we wander, seeing the stars in the sky, and maybe sometimes feeling so close to them. Underneath this tasteful backdrop--not too dark, but never too hot. Just sufficiently bright. Warmed by the life those stars sent, and warmed by that same thing they gave our friends. We don't give up, no. we walk. we run. and we walk when we get tired again. we don't fly though, never no. because we don't wanna miss out like before. I mean, the dreams might even be close too, yet we don't feel like sleeping anymore. Many are good and we are not them by design.

Day 57

Ammo-ninity. N. an expression for preemptively assuming protection of private information and thoughts, due to it being a more crushing blow for said information to be broadcast publicly and nobody batting an eye, or really much giving a shit.

Darkly toned tales and figures represent me, namelessly drowning in a sea. Which when drank up, leaves others still thirsty—maybe too aplenty in drops of not-enough? Social security numbers and salty pasts? Brothers and sisters, all you gotta do is ask. Preferences and credit scores, take’m, they're yours...and to say it all to you, salt and pepper girl, nothing would free me more. Because all—and I mean all—interpretations of me and my secrecy, took a giving axe to some growth-like identity. Right now, I’m looking clear at it. As is, it should burn pretty well, a nice and fresh split. So what’s the cost of restored sincerity? Like if a repairman existed and spent his Saturdays in the shop and on-call? How much is it to repair and mend and reclaim me as whole? Well, the cost is giving over these types of tidbits, I've found. Because what I have to offer--if I’m not beyond repair--well, there's an inexhaustible amount to go around. And, by and large baby, it’s a solid seed in fertile ground—potentially, even a wise tree. Wise enough to play its strength as a sway with the breeze. It’s just about a sprout and I want it all yours, because you got the one thing I need. You got a mind and the pipes to tell me you appreciate me. Perhaps just maybe you’re doing night duty on-call? Oh ok, I totally get it, just trust I understand what you say, and let me hang up this phone ok? Your tones of voice dial-up fragile insides, and I hear inconvenience in what you don’t say. With a proud and tall capital I. It’s fine, I can keep moving on, and truth is, it’s not like it’s just me. I mean, feeling ok’s always purchasable from the almighty He, and a bit of that lonesome tv. Make yourself comfy in the imagination land of my Ammo-ninity.

techno flesh

Tough feet--tender mind. Calloused hands--soft heart. All scarred on the outside all new on the inside. Harsh elements leave the gentle charmed. Who maybe even see some points to the harm. And the hard-inside people even did concede: “God damn it, you’ve got to be kind” (Vonnegut). Suppose you resign to acting fine, so you don't gotta talk that way. Like if there ever was matter made by what postulating Powers say.

Tender feet—tough mind. Soft hands—rough heart. Carefully presented skin—inside still no gut direction. And a people's rule has always been: the poor have the fun while the rich wish on; wish maybe that the excess was served up a slight-bit different. Go on, increasing schemes for what's not even there anymore—we’re just trying to use what we got, and what it's for.

Which raises my point about those hands and the feet again. Because I saw a picture today. It showed the most advanced bionic hand created to date, a hand made by who knows how many a man. Fabricated all that imagining into a working part, which spawned an image sent before me through a machine. And frankly, it led me to a simple state of wonder—to wonder if all that touches can necessarily feel.

Fishy and the Kosmos

This time he was trying to guide his nature far away from, “I got one.”

Casting last bait, wondering means how—looping visions of her getaway.

Because together they might come, but will go like late day sun,

If thinking like the fisherman who got one too full of fight to stay.

Sure as sun rises, red toenails sink into she-says smelly shoes,

Blood exits white knuckles, squeezing tighter to the reel’s winding core.

She told him she digs hands and how he touched each time with two.

In secret he knew of their barbed hooks—a tendency to forget what hands are for.

Before him, he tied together, was this creation “not far off from me.”

Two creatures that saw with eyes of a “striking blue,” or so were often told.

And two that held regard for wonder, and sang its praise slightly off-key.

An intuitive thought snagged him: “Hands hold no good in letting good unfold.”

She had said her fake fingernails made her feel pretty and so he wanted to be one.

She offered a nibble and the blue eyes met, only to insist on maroon.

Their slip-sliding flesh together one last time, his hook hold came undone.

and off she swam for a sinking sun, for tomorrow’s light, and the coming full moon.

The memory stayed of her long slither go; thoughts fought back when they pleased.

The moon always hovered above coming and going, constant but with a chance.
Looking up he got used to his reflection in Blue, and found its hookless Ease.
But every now and then he stared down into any-moment uncertainty.

If ever that fishy rose to surface, and lost fight in these two salved hands, 
then soft-lit circles might ripple out perfect, like rulings made by moon: 
So the Kosmos be.

Fed Up

Remember the days when we could complain about the skyscraper steeple with all the marketing people? When it was boardrooms of lined pockets one-dimensionalizing the human touch? Those days before a screen was a basic necessity--or at least convincingly sold to us as such. I'm on an unpaid internship with myself--the ever-green naif watching how a self gets sold. Just add resist and grow giant weary of fitting day's mold. Got no key card to that bean-stalk brothel of glass-- not this puttin-down stones, well-mannered whore. Whoa Jack, can't take it any more: we who remain child souls are scheming the Last Roar.

Month 13

Be foot hustlin'

mind hot burnin'-like

Be soul rainin'

cold cool—like mercy.

Spark ideas jumpin’

'round misty notions,

never to ignite.

Ear white. Hear black, or:

just the words left to right,

see. Eyes be light. See,

heavy tones in flight.

So, if matter is in an ever grey state,

then what whispers murky fate?

May (it) be an inkling that say:

A beating heart feels just right.