brother from the land of the dead speaks about the brother in the land of the still living:
nothing much is different in terms of rhythm and tempo, nothing much at all only in terms of observation of open observation in ability to observe observingly, not objective, not omnipotent, just free to speak of these things more freely. things such as:
he misses her. the her is problematic because of reasons one might suspect if one were suspicious of these things (note to self in world of living: one should be suspicious, because although they are useful categories, they need more care, especially at this point in time when there is enough evidence, evidence of the violent kind, that there is a war on, and in wartime, thinking like a warrior means to use care, use caution, and to keep the list of enemies close at hand)...he misses her then problematically her not problematically miss, miss in the sense of longing and grieving, yes that, yes that again, yes that's a good line, yes that's a good line again, longing and grieving are the same same same...her, though, her means so many things, and so many people, and the people all have so many faces and so many identities, he wants her to be this one, the one who moves like olokun on the bottom of the ocean and knows him there...knew him, perhaps, does she remember him? does she still recognize him? did she go away because she was hearing things from sources inside and outside her own head, sources she didn't necessarily trust, sources that kept telling her that he was speaking about her behind her back, saying bad things behind her back, when nothing could be further from the truth, but they'll soak it up, they'll soak it up, they'll soak it up...but the one who has olokun in her room and sleeps next to olokun, he would write poems to her olokun and try to reach her there somewhere in the bottom of a poem, but it's already done, but he wonders if she thinks about him too much, she must think about him too much, because she's in his thoughts all the time and that's too much it's like grief it's like longing it's like obba missing shango, and he doesn't miss her like that...she another she, these are all she's, it's predictable then, nothing complicated, it's just in his head that they stay she's and he identifies them as she's, and he might be wrong and is probably wrong, it matters, though, it matters very much, matters enough to remove the mark under the light of the moon with a promise to keep some things under the tongue, the best thing about you is something that i will keep secret, our best moments are held under a pocket of muscle around my heart, and if it binds my heartbeat at the end of the day and stops my breath in the night, i will still keep it secret, because the blue light that comes from your body did not slip out so that i could speak of the rainbows from your tongue to the waking world at large, but only so that i could hold them like a communion wafter under my tongue, dissolving under my tongue like you dissolve under my tongue, and i am stuck at the end of another month sending coded messages to you under the cover of this hot morning light...she, this other she, the oil from costa rica coffee beans on the fold of skin at the place where her neck meets ear, gravity pulling the drop to a mouth whose lips are full enough to weave stories of the beginning of the world through her teeth, and a remarkable capacity to become animal and human again with the speed of light on the water, he misses her birth, the way history marks her belly with equal parts europe and a continent whose history is unwritten on the undiscoverable parts of the skin, where no one can reach without a map, he misses her maps...or the worst by far by far is the one who is about to happen the one who is about to fall on his road, something very much like immanence is breathing under the bed and is about to come into the light, and it could be so many things, on the verge of something that is about to happen...but worse still is this sense that the back of his neck is starting to tighten because tomorrow is the time when all this debt will be paid, and he is suddenly aware that it's going to be important, and likely as anything it's going to be less important than he thinks. because the figures in the story really don't go away, not all the way, and this one who moves like a ghost will speak again, and this one who spoke so well will still remain silent because she can't remember electric hands, and this one who started to hate herself will wake up suddenly at 3:23 and tell herself that what she wants is not possible in this world, in these configurations of skins, and she won't breathe a word of this to anyone. his belly is growing tight again and his skin is starting to pull to burst open again and there are heads inside his head that want to speak again, about you can't go home again, about this one won't come around again, about this is the first time again and everything again bites again like a word or a heart who's teeth have always been sharp but didn't really glisten in the light until they drew actual blood, and this is blood in a pocket in a mouth and under a pillow for dreams that might hint at a moment that's about to enter a life like a river in the middle of a cave that no one noticed until it was friday, and until it was really, terribly and utterly, before noon, long before noon.
nothing much is different in terms of rhythm and tempo, nothing much at all only in terms of observation of open observation in ability to observe observingly, not objective, not omnipotent, just free to speak of these things more freely. things such as:
he misses her. the her is problematic because of reasons one might suspect if one were suspicious of these things (note to self in world of living: one should be suspicious, because although they are useful categories, they need more care, especially at this point in time when there is enough evidence, evidence of the violent kind, that there is a war on, and in wartime, thinking like a warrior means to use care, use caution, and to keep the list of enemies close at hand)...he misses her then problematically her not problematically miss, miss in the sense of longing and grieving, yes that, yes that again, yes that's a good line, yes that's a good line again, longing and grieving are the same same same...her, though, her means so many things, and so many people, and the people all have so many faces and so many identities, he wants her to be this one, the one who moves like olokun on the bottom of the ocean and knows him there...knew him, perhaps, does she remember him? does she still recognize him? did she go away because she was hearing things from sources inside and outside her own head, sources she didn't necessarily trust, sources that kept telling her that he was speaking about her behind her back, saying bad things behind her back, when nothing could be further from the truth, but they'll soak it up, they'll soak it up, they'll soak it up...but the one who has olokun in her room and sleeps next to olokun, he would write poems to her olokun and try to reach her there somewhere in the bottom of a poem, but it's already done, but he wonders if she thinks about him too much, she must think about him too much, because she's in his thoughts all the time and that's too much it's like grief it's like longing it's like obba missing shango, and he doesn't miss her like that...she another she, these are all she's, it's predictable then, nothing complicated, it's just in his head that they stay she's and he identifies them as she's, and he might be wrong and is probably wrong, it matters, though, it matters very much, matters enough to remove the mark under the light of the moon with a promise to keep some things under the tongue, the best thing about you is something that i will keep secret, our best moments are held under a pocket of muscle around my heart, and if it binds my heartbeat at the end of the day and stops my breath in the night, i will still keep it secret, because the blue light that comes from your body did not slip out so that i could speak of the rainbows from your tongue to the waking world at large, but only so that i could hold them like a communion wafter under my tongue, dissolving under my tongue like you dissolve under my tongue, and i am stuck at the end of another month sending coded messages to you under the cover of this hot morning light...she, this other she, the oil from costa rica coffee beans on the fold of skin at the place where her neck meets ear, gravity pulling the drop to a mouth whose lips are full enough to weave stories of the beginning of the world through her teeth, and a remarkable capacity to become animal and human again with the speed of light on the water, he misses her birth, the way history marks her belly with equal parts europe and a continent whose history is unwritten on the undiscoverable parts of the skin, where no one can reach without a map, he misses her maps...or the worst by far by far is the one who is about to happen the one who is about to fall on his road, something very much like immanence is breathing under the bed and is about to come into the light, and it could be so many things, on the verge of something that is about to happen...but worse still is this sense that the back of his neck is starting to tighten because tomorrow is the time when all this debt will be paid, and he is suddenly aware that it's going to be important, and likely as anything it's going to be less important than he thinks. because the figures in the story really don't go away, not all the way, and this one who moves like a ghost will speak again, and this one who spoke so well will still remain silent because she can't remember electric hands, and this one who started to hate herself will wake up suddenly at 3:23 and tell herself that what she wants is not possible in this world, in these configurations of skins, and she won't breathe a word of this to anyone. his belly is growing tight again and his skin is starting to pull to burst open again and there are heads inside his head that want to speak again, about you can't go home again, about this one won't come around again, about this is the first time again and everything again bites again like a word or a heart who's teeth have always been sharp but didn't really glisten in the light until they drew actual blood, and this is blood in a pocket in a mouth and under a pillow for dreams that might hint at a moment that's about to enter a life like a river in the middle of a cave that no one noticed until it was friday, and until it was really, terribly and utterly, before noon, long before noon.
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