Wednesday, July 20, 2016

The Past

Now on to scores of other things where our parting reverberates for generations. It was not predetermined; the dice cast down all thoughts of conjecture as we wallowed in pointless dispersal. Where is my heart? Here I have found traces--veins of gold in the periphery. An interior lost, now reconfigured. Beliefs about self dashed against the concrete of what once was. While time cannot be recaptured, a sense of being resurrects itself, hovering in the heat of day. It is good to know what was lost. Gaining a piece of one’s humanity always has benefits. On the thin ice of my life, I have skated to another shore.

Thinking now of Antwerp, its port calling my watery intentions. A sea captain, great ships, lost rough ages that spew over the coast. Bottomless is the narrative. It skips across timelines and to-do lists. In every relegation there is a truth, in every lie there is hope. Those who blame, or do not let go of a perceived event, tumble relentlessly in the maze of unforgiveness. Your face is locked by resentful memories that have little basis in the screen play. We cry in the night over illusions, missing the sparklings  that were at hand. Push, you said, drive off to the unknown. Your lack of enthusiasm sprinkled over choreographed lawns in the land of make it up as you go.

All that can be remembered, that which has worth, is your head against my chest; your breath in my ear. Closeness has no words or repercussions. It is as it should be, the sweet petal on the vine between the fence and a daydream. I have seen things that I do not care to recall, have lost moments that cannot be recaptured. Orion lurks overhead as the mists of the bayou dapple against a worn out journal. There is magic in the air in those places time has forgot; where the bustle of the paycheck is lost in meandering. Granted, one must overlook incestuous tendencies of the pockets beyond the herd but a life of leisure has too many bonuses to overlook. My hand trembles on your thigh. Pain disappears in your touch. What has never happened can be summoned on the stones of eternity. Hear me now, my voice never squashed, my spirit never liquidated in your fire sale. 

Ignition is the key to all dreams. We gather what we can on the banks of derision. Who you have become was not lost as the decades fathomed past the house on the long road, the forest with the long leaves, the mind of lost hope. We come to this place to make peace. If you disown or tarnish it, the spell is broken and you grow old. If belief matters, then kindness is content. Rest assured that progress never falters, or is very important in the end. Time sets down the altered path as we move toward the door of unanswered questions. Peace now. It is all.

Saturday, July 16, 2016

The Bridge of Memory


On the bridge, streams of vehicles go on and on. Unable to acknowledge a capped river below, the silky draw of memory closes. There is no time for anything of substance. Love is in the minute, the seconds tick on your sweet song of being. Mechanical necessities engulf the endless march toward paycheck. The continual gathering of children, bleached in the haphazard of topic after topic, have no urge to learn. The noise is terminal. The insects jump at incessant turbulence. Everyone is on the make. There is no corner to stand on as the entire populous munches on the consumer train of tidings. They picnic in large numbers, musical taste battling each other. Talk rarely stops to sleep.

Some of us, though, languidly move through time and space. We learned this by other waters, lakes on the hand, north and then west into the rural. Big university splayed across the land feeding the minds of the misinformed. Love feasted on our young bodies, disjointed, unable to make it all work. What a time it was. Everything is possible on sugar mountain with the barkers and the colored balloons. Boundaries broke, desire unsatisfied but the girl tasted a life she had never known. Their reaction to ravenous appetite left them wounded, angry. Off she went to see more, devour more. The hunger is insatiable. Forever is the consciousness of ingesting.

Toward the end of the line, a pang for that closeness rattled emerging artistry, too long buried beneath protection. All that violence is useful now. All the wanting is the catalyst for depth. It cannot be reduced to this or that. Meaning supplanted hazards with understanding and if we are not about understanding we are about destroying. Forgiveness is a tool to damn the unanointed. Clasping the hand of the other is a necessity now and forever. Embrace said wrongs and all will be well. Cross that bridge to faulty memory and live in this second. Take the water of return.