Tuesday, April 30, 2019

I am

Greek bronze circa 100 BCE

I am from the ocean. The waves pass through my veins as I wallow through the sludge of unending obstacles. Still I continue. Sick. Brave. Tired of that which I do not understand. I heave to the sky with a magnet on my sleeve to keep me where I must be. Not on this land, which I do not know, but back to the place that I know better because of this land. History comes alive with suffering. The pages of the west. Our greed, determination, thievery, intentions good and bad become much clearer through privation and lack of understanding. Hygiene, safety laws, legislation, money making, diversity, addressing of issues. They are there in a new light. The Atlantic and Pacific and all between beat in my heart. Imagine a land lit up by leaving. We learn through experience, observation. It’s all relative. Words do not cover it. Even the monster at the helm cannot tarnish the dream that is American democracy. It is a wisp of a thing in reality but mammothly present as ideology. Can we make our home free? We have been trying since its founding. Failing. Sometimes failing well, sometimes famously false. The school bell rings. 

Greek bronze circa 100 BCE

I am from the crowded room called humanity. My wings flap even though I have none. My vocal cords shake the earth like a lion. I sing like a nightingale; am treacherous and kind as a dedicated nun. Beware the turnstile of the human heart. It strives to be light but is often as heavy as the earth. I will knock on your door, knock about your garden, see the beauty and spit at the indifferent. There lays the matter of the big, world turning. Unpredictable, genuine, unreliable, worthy. Can you pin it down? Never. Not now, not ever. It is an illusion to think so. It will flutter past your eyes without leaving a trail. It will drag you to the bottom, then pull you up to the heights. Jesters all, that thing called failure and success. A deluded populace searches for answers hoping to nail them down on the desert floor, sinking, sinking. Faster and faster only to face itself where it started. Yes. The journey, the journey. Angels whisper at the attempt. The devils laugh over their indigestion. Bleep. Blap. Blob. A speck in the universe. So absurdly self-involved. Righteous. Raucous. Revealed. Rewound. There they go. Have after them . They will slip through your fingers faster than you can say JP Rocks. 

I am the searched for air. Freedom of movement. Labored breath. Surly mouths sucking on the taps of life. Desperate. Elated. Lost in a dwindling wilderness dreaming of polished six shooters. Violence becomes a picture show. Flickers. Saturday night specials, three for a dollar if you’re under 12 years old. Oh, Loews of my youth. Where did you go? You stayed in the mind as reality. So hard to dispel. Please for it to be that way. But no, you had to be a brut, didn’t you? You had to bring a light to see with. You had to be too complex to figure out, although many have tried. In the end, though, it’s entertainment for the mind. A star for the collar. A gentle reminder that we must amuse ourselves or go mad. 

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