all of the time, soul and body telling each other stories through a tin can walkie talkie. old friends, known it all along. mistakes were made and yet, let the record show, they aren't blaming the other just yet. not the time. bonds aren't meant to fray so easily.
give it time. let the understanding run its course. we'll see what they're made of yet. and soon enough, we'll know beyond the shadow of any doubt.
everything, in time.
Today I will write something.
Step into the face of creation, stare at it,
Be blinded by the force of the collective will
Existing within me.
The will to take the winds of time and push sand from the desert to a city
and to get in everybody’s expensive coffees.
Goddamnit, they’ll say, this was 8 dollars.
The sand will only be up to their ankles.
Driving will get harder. Traction being what it is,
And speed being something of a prerequisite.
I have only just begun to reconcile the urge
To dismantle, to build,
casting sand in all directions, whistling like a desert storm, and you are all fishtailing out of your company parking spaces
Lost in the sand piles. Tires crying a lament as they struggle for purchase.
Time, is not on our side.
As the monuments rise from the piles, as the sand burns to glass,
Encloses us.
I have made us a record of its passage.
And we are now up to our word holes, spitting grit and trying to speak.
Soon, the sand will cover everything and the time will be complete.
Soon, we will flip ourselves over and see what stays
This sand, a record for something else.
Will we be a mark on its ledger?
Give me the truth as you see fit, my love.
Break it apart into 12 or 13 manageable pieces
rolling off of the tongue in meaningful slobberings
I know this so well.
Even better than you might, the medicated stumble of a mouth
rife with SAT prep lingo from a bygone era. Paleolithic
shots of affection across the starboard front of the vessel,
whatever that might imply to our friends in the maritime industry.
Whatever that implies to anyone.
Holy, all that is Holy. Attached to sounds of my spindly flesh’s protests under the currents that guide us into what comes and what may.
I am slurring again, letting the closely inspected colors, neat within the lines, leak out and make a perfectly damn fine picture ripe with blurry hues.
Everything ends up as shit if I’m not careful these days. With no bags to store it and set it on fire outside the local municipality’s domicile.
Go on, say it like I mean it, self.
Let them know how I really feel, this time.
All my time
Spent
In fragments.
I could write it a love letter and throw it, without a bottle, into the ocean.
For all it is worth.
Churned by the white froth.
Wetted and torn by the elements.
Ink running deeper into the sea
In gobs
Distorted blots to poison the sea life.
Better to fold it up,
Into the perfect,
Well-manicured paper airplane
to toss from a great height.
Let the wind allow it to travel where it wishes.
Borne across the currents to a place where
Birds will tear the sentiments apart with beaks and beady black eyes.
Shit out my words on unsuspecting windshields
To be blasted away by bargain wiper fluid.
and to slip into the road.
Deep into our streams
and make the least of us
Vomit into the cold, night air.
In surprise, grasping our chests for relief.
What it amounts to in the end-
Always a poisoner,
and those who are poisoned.
