And the levity of one example brought on the harm of another while watching stars, listening to ‘mind’, and fingers reading pages and pages and dusty pages turning to new pages smelling of ink while staring at a bar room wall with all sounds bouncing from ear to ear, some listening to this, some not, the bar pushes further, mouths drink and pages turn; lives of another might be yours someday, as she watches from the other side.
It was a different version of today without tomorrow, yesterday was gone too. Leaving a something option. “Gravity,” he said, “is used in ways we don’t understand; holding and un-holding themselves exactly where they want to be while everything else moves.” To conceal is to prove a whisper can turn to life. The holding of time isn’t a hand.
Into which we point a view and ask others to follow while the cat strings a tail and twists a mind to follow. A tear falls from the droplets of itself and purrs into a smile. “Isn’t this what you want?” She walks away, with legs that you remember, and with it your memory.
There’s a reason whiskey exists and why the songs that we love stick. Stopped for a turtle once. It was in the middle of the road. Near railroad tracks. I got out, walked toward it and noticed a few things. Walking toward it was a bad idea. Didn’t like me at all, though I was trying to save its life. Turtle didn’t care. I drove away smelling the summer air knowing I’d never forget.
We were trying to get there so we were there, and nothing was found. No wind. No noise. Nothing to smell and nothing to see. The digging for- found absence. Even the worms were away, also looking; for us to be found with thoughts free enough to live again.
Yes, they see you, and the trees also bend while justice plays tricks on us all; and the closed eyes linger a little longer, smelling the darkness and seeing the nothing while ears play songs the wind knows, and the wind knows how longer will stretch longest- A note from memory plays backward. Fly away. It said. So it came again.
I like to look at the sky without a voice in my ear. A simple thing, fingers on wood, a thing in a word, while an eye watches a few others. It’s nothing that needs to be remembered, other than the memory itself, and the one who took hold of creation. Isn’t it nice when you sit on a step, alone, at night, and see whatever is given without judgement.
I originally wrote this on 2/27/20 and find it rather fitting to post it again. Somehow the words are more true, for me, than one year ago. I published this just before my book signing last year, which was an incredibly fun time. And then, our country was shut down. It’s time for another book signing.
‘You can force calm in the eyes of hatred, if you’ve been there before.’ He stomped through the mud, listening to the moist sounds, his boots covered in layers of love. “And what’s the about?” asked the tree with the misshaped mouth. ‘Nothing.’ “And why were you there?” ‘I don’t know, but I’m ready for when I am again,’ and the stomping continued and the mud said nothing.