reflections of a reflex

my house is clean and i've cleared out the cupboards from the dust of the months between a there and a here, those points not being entirely fixed, or even fixated enough to make for an obsessive love story about someone missing someone, vice versa or not.  it's unlikely that the points in between will make any kind of lovely patterns, chaos snowmen that speak of an intelligent plan, but i'm still waking up knowing that my arteries end on the banks of a river, and underneath there are plans being made to make my heart know something it didn't know yesterday.  i didn't clear out all the epazote that spilled, but i don't think i should, because i want that to collect something, i want it to attract something, but already i'm giving away too much.

my favorite movies are about death, and they never end sad enough, not desolate enough, the now what's of the silver screen seem like empty gestures, even if they do happen in real life.  there have been too many brushes this year, and enough losses to constitute a real sense of loss, and this is the radio music of a year that doesn't seem to want to try to change its station.  more death and more loss are on the way, and more birth and more things that are found, suddenly, under a silver moon when the promises we make to our spirits are held in a place of accountability, a packet that is buried under a virtual tree, but maybe you know me by now, and the things that are virtual here are also very literal, and there are things that i buried here.

there are silver flakes in the bottom of my mouth, residue from speaking in tongues in public, and remnants of the chemical flashing thru his blood to keep him in the world at least a little longer.  those medical spells are working, for at least a little longer, and i've been too tired to cast any love spells, and i don't really have time in the morning for breakfast.  but if that was about to change, i would hold this silver, the flakes that taste like blood at the end of the day, and start to speak of things that i know are coming, and things that i know have gone.  and i would tell you a million stories about the woman that i loved, the copper witch who blew thru me like a wild horse, because you might remind me of her, and because she once reminded me of someone else that i lost, and because i move like a wild horse when i am sensing that i might be called upon to grieve soon enough.  and i would tell you a million stories about eyes that are kind, and reveal too much softness, the kind of softness that has to be covered up with organization, intention, and escape.  and i would hear a million songs that come rising from under your silver tongue, on a night when there isn't enough time to say the things we need to say immediately.

i changed some things when i was moving clouds of dust from one end to another, and praying that copal smoke would take away the things that are no longer necessary, and bring back the things i left behind because i was in too much of a hurry to say goodbye.  my mother doesn't own the marrow, but she knows it better than anyone, and she knows the promises that i made to the river.  i don't forget and can't forget the promises that i made to the river, and as much as i would love to grieve and long and hide in a corner, i find myself making things with my fingers, at the time of day when the day is barely hanging on, in that space between worlds where matter and spirit start to change places, and it might be a confession if i say that i can't always tell the difference any more, and it might be a confession to say that i find myself making spells, even though i'm pretending to be falling asleep, even though i'm pretending this isn't everywhere, even though i'm pretending that i won't let myself fall. 


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