I lost 45 pounds this year
beating myself up
running till the verge of heart attack
I throw myself at dangerous situations like a two year old
throws himself at death
leaping from the banister trusting someone will be there to catch me
I get death is out there
not for me
death is someone else’s problem when you’re two
I haven’t lost that optimism
I’ve just lost that innocence
I should know better
after gaining 45 years
and a few pounds
now I know where gravity goes
so momentum is ultimately against me
but still in this still silence
I resign myself
knowing enough not to fight it
but go with it-
we don’t intentionally hitch hike in the wrong direction
And then again when the membrane between us and them
is as thin as skin when you and me become we
that split second before we choose to be
or choose not to be waking to reality
where we are free to dream
till we see the gleam
and we open our eyes
is simply training for when we are free not to be
and eventually the light at the end of this tunnel will be a train
taking us to this afterlife’s refrain
when we cash in that capital gain
we’ll stop referring to this domain as our “afterlife”
Time flies then falls when
now always migrates to then
these geese this Autumn
All the science in this universe cannot conquer chaos
and vice versa
like why the sky is blue
until it’s sunset
and colors you’ve never seen streak across the sky
and nothing is completely anything
when even the night sky undresses some naked light
why do I feel I have to say anything at all?
why did the first caveman think to say anything at all to the second caveman?
my guess is that the first word was “no”
because “yes” is implicit
and everything in between isn’t really what you want to say any way
Being cooped up in your apartment for weeks comes naturally when you’re a writer.
I’ve been practising social distancing since high school.
Back then I was a nerd when I said I couldn’t go out because I had to stay home and write.
Now I sound smart.
Now I am writing and I’m missing my friends and family.
I saw my mom today from the prescribed two meters away. It was the first time in my life that I did not hug or kiss my mom hello or good bye.
What the hell have we come to?
This is the difference between writing and living.
This is the mucosa between wrapped in a dream and a comforter a second after the alarm sounds.
This is the placenta between not knowing you’re drooling in your sleep and rolling over and waking face first in that pool of drool.
This is the distance swimming the lake when it’s ten miles to either side and like newborns, we just keep kicking.
When we swim in waves of thoughts that are not our own
when we see our bodies are only on loan
we won’t fear where we’re going
when we don’t fear where we’ve come from
like sticking your ear against a conch shell to hear the ocean
in the middle of the desert
Music lets us travel
I’m listening to a song that was on the radio when I was eight
and I’m eight again
with all the innocence and ignorance
reading the Bible before bed
and reading if your left hand betrays you you should cut it off
and I sat up all night shivering knowing
my left hand had dropped an easy fly ball to right
and lying there deep in the night
knowing I was disappointing God
I got up and walked down to the kitchen to get a knife
big enough to hack off my left hand
and I pressed it to my wrist
but the bone got in the way
and I thought how painful it would be
to cut my hand off
and tears came to my eyes realizing
I was not a child of God
till thirty-six years later I see
I just didn’t get metaphor
“Why does life have to be bittersweet?”
you ask me between sips of beer.
You’re really asking the wrong guy, but but but this much I did hear:
look at life as a song
you can’t listen to the same note too long
music needs flats and sharps
sometimes horns sometimes harps.
Or taste this life this moveable feast-
alone salt and pepper we’d never eat or paprika,
but when tossed on a sirloin into this same pot… euerka!
We like our drinks cold
our steaks sizzling
our coffee hot
our ice cream and
our Alaska baked.
It’s like seeing the forest in the tree and every inch on which she feeds
supporting this tree at her most beautiful,
wearing this death-mask of Fall only to be stripped naked by Old Man Winter who buries his fallen children in snow.
Here is where we feel the rub of life:
to feel connected to anything, to separate us from androids,
our circuits have to be continually
shocked and stimulated
by an infinite amount of currents connected to an infinite amount of emotions charged positively and negatively
or else we lose our sensitivity
until we can’t feel these elements burning our skin.
I hate my heart, but
being feelings’ slave I can’t
free love from my hate