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February 08, 2009 | | Comments 0

What Ought. What Welcomed Work, As I Began

February 8, 2009

What ought. What welcomed work, as I began,
as a child consciousness growing, to ‘save up’
for the future, a tomorrow that did not permit
(and still doesn’t) echoes romantic or adult sound
add-vice?

There are two pictures I see of me, sitting in a red
chair and wearing that object’s colored shirt, it
sitting in me. Yes, there was a struggle, though
not to blame those who resisted me, because we
resisted one another simultaneously, and blinding-
light-descent to this incarnation plans such twilights
as these, moments of stricture and scripture, nearly
the same in heartache and effect, though worlds
apart when more than one god knocks.

There are places, open-sided-closets planetary size,
who reside behind the foreground and in front of the
background; the first curtain looks to be ultramarine
blue, though what it might be through the eyes of a
grasshopper, I am not sure. I didn’t have to resist the
molding naturally taking place. Fate chooses? I am
not sure Part 2.

There are birds that lay broken eggs first and then
spend weeks carefully building them together, not
back-together… And once complete, then the prayers
start and Humpty Dumpty can sit on the wall from an
inside of himself and not have to be so ‘high up’ to get
a view of ‘I-lands’.

It was a beautiful thistle in my birth,
to be dethroned immediately in the midst of
the jewelers who spent nearly their entire lifetimes
crafting a crown for every day of my expected
‘each year spent’ as another ‘father to be he’,
who was and did lend heaven half the bridge
in getting this ‘here’ to me and I to it.

Something, a quizzical ancient pair of railroad
worker’s palms, chiseled, giant boned and brown
from hammering the sun into spark, holy fleshy,
breathing in fossils beneath my soft tiny hands,
their calluses strategically placed holding shredded
reigns, no horses could I see, though every night,
their breath would steam up my bedroom windows
and hooves pounded, racing round Nocturne’s rib cage…

Something expected All-This to be ‘this way’
and it was this knowing, it was that wry smile on
my realization, who was seeing god playing peek-a-boo
while I wept into my own shadows, hinging up from the
ground beneath me, a trapdoor into hell, because I called
it firstly a ‘trap’ and not a ‘door’.

Maybe that’s what birth can do to a soul already
deep in its own tarnish, dripping from having spilled
itself through so many antique galaxies getting here;
poured out onto a bed that looks nothing like Orion,
or lifted skyward, dripping, still in a deep sleep,
fetched via a vertical cut, and awakening in hands
who were definitely not as warm as the suns I knew.

Soul to soul though, it is only fair, that in a circus
elephants pull the tents taunt and not the paying
customers: awake to hands, to my hands too, I don’t
recall having those either when I kick started Jupiter’s
stormy eye so long ago.

And yes, we forget that we wondered out of the
womb, unattached, cut from the Sun and Earth,
and was at first as quiet and self developing as a
moon, then, by seemingly some part of us not yet able
to graduate from the gradual, we began returning to
old habits, listening through apartment walls to the
news, as if infanthood, prior to the hood, and being
pregnant with parents, them on the outside, wasn’t
enough of a lesson in second hand ‘first news’.

Though, is there ever anything after ‘first’?
We move towards the shores, not so much because
they change and offer new adventure, but because
they’re there and always were, so far as oceans and
surges go. Then there’s the appointment with nothing,
that’s what we’re looking for, the ability of our one
color to mix and dilute, concentrate and swirl into
millions more, with no favorite color for a color
who is already obviously its best it can do truth.

There’s a time that never arrives because it’s
here already; the dismay begins when we call it ‘time’
while timing and giving trophy for having been timed,
we fool ourselves because our presence inhabits two
clowns expecting one another to either cheat, or get so
expert at being stubborn, that whoever finds stalemate
first, wins. Though this isn’t it and ‘they’ know;
confusion and frustration proves there’s a conscience,
a soul reaching into all this flesh and bone, lightning,
color and silhouetted one dimension birthing into two
and three and four and so on… God does love to count,
and we do fancy pretending we’re not the favored zero.

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