everyone interesting watches the moon, as above so below, the moon is the most interesting light most of us have ever met, but her darkness is utterly devastating, we are stuck flattened on the landscape of the desert floor that looks like the moon, lost before her, lost to her, lost in each other to bless her path across the sky, and the one around the corner is speaking about something new, something we haven't even counted on yet.
i wish on this same moon that i might be one of the children whose chaos is measured and allotted in secretly set amounts, this much chaos for a life, this much confusion for an arrested adolescence, and this much spinning for an adult who is about to enter into that other age, one where these small signs don't have to add up to anything larger, whose chaos isn't a mirror with which to measure the chaos of the world.
but not today, the wish isn't here today, because after a year of new scars, when it seems like there couldn't possibly be more, before the wounds of a brother and a lost lover have even started to think about closing, there is a hole in my right hand where a knife used to be, and there is a hole in my left hand where a bee used to be. it swells in the moonlight, and i am looking for an answer, something to tell me what it might all add up to, it's in the place where the world is in pain and swollen, in the place where a thousand revolutionaries come knocking at my door, but i can't answer yet because i can't lift my hand.
these new scars are from becoming animal, from a few dozen small sacrifices that give birth to the ocean, these new scars are from the rocks on the ocean floor when the rising tide is ebbing and flowing from the bottom of the sea (note to selves: i didn't see you there, but the mermaids couldn't tell me if you'd left yet or not, i hope you leave something behind, a note i might find there, or a hidden letter on the neck of a mermaid who's always so close to my own neck), these new scars are from the sun from another time between here and there.
i closed it there, i went to the sea and complained about the things i always want to have even though i gave them all away, i complained and then i shifted, and then it closed and became as tight as a fist, a fist that could hold a promise that i would never forget you (i promised you i wouldn't, why would it surprise you? i think it's strange you never knew...). but the same fist, re-opened by a bee on the way from here to there, a smaller version through a smaller mountain, and i don't know what she is telling me.
if i stayed there i would rot, but when i leave there i am stung. i come back to organize and modify and reconfigure, and all she wants to tell me is the same song from the oceans on the moon, she can't stop thinking about the song from the moon, and i can't stop thinking about her hands.
i wish on this same moon that i might be one of the children whose chaos is measured and allotted in secretly set amounts, this much chaos for a life, this much confusion for an arrested adolescence, and this much spinning for an adult who is about to enter into that other age, one where these small signs don't have to add up to anything larger, whose chaos isn't a mirror with which to measure the chaos of the world.
but not today, the wish isn't here today, because after a year of new scars, when it seems like there couldn't possibly be more, before the wounds of a brother and a lost lover have even started to think about closing, there is a hole in my right hand where a knife used to be, and there is a hole in my left hand where a bee used to be. it swells in the moonlight, and i am looking for an answer, something to tell me what it might all add up to, it's in the place where the world is in pain and swollen, in the place where a thousand revolutionaries come knocking at my door, but i can't answer yet because i can't lift my hand.
these new scars are from becoming animal, from a few dozen small sacrifices that give birth to the ocean, these new scars are from the rocks on the ocean floor when the rising tide is ebbing and flowing from the bottom of the sea (note to selves: i didn't see you there, but the mermaids couldn't tell me if you'd left yet or not, i hope you leave something behind, a note i might find there, or a hidden letter on the neck of a mermaid who's always so close to my own neck), these new scars are from the sun from another time between here and there.
i closed it there, i went to the sea and complained about the things i always want to have even though i gave them all away, i complained and then i shifted, and then it closed and became as tight as a fist, a fist that could hold a promise that i would never forget you (i promised you i wouldn't, why would it surprise you? i think it's strange you never knew...). but the same fist, re-opened by a bee on the way from here to there, a smaller version through a smaller mountain, and i don't know what she is telling me.
if i stayed there i would rot, but when i leave there i am stung. i come back to organize and modify and reconfigure, and all she wants to tell me is the same song from the oceans on the moon, she can't stop thinking about the song from the moon, and i can't stop thinking about her hands.
No comments:
Post a Comment