holding on for life

they call these stretches

episodes,

as if they only last a brief spell,

and wrap themselves up tight

at a definitive end:

into a meaningful

conclusion.

 

really it’s just hell getting through

each hour,

and then,

more confusion.

and you really don’t want any one watching.

but often you need some one watching

to help pull you out the other side.

 

believing that coordinates can lead you

to the center

of the universe

is saying you know the way to the edges,

to the end of the world.

there is no end; therefore, there is no center.

it’s just spinning and falling and flying and holding on for life.

Advertisements

brief blink

20141017_090125

you are getting better at this:

moving these murmurs through time;

 

listening beyond the trickle of life-blood

to the more ever-lasting.

 

how else do you manage the fear?

 

it is going to end someday, this leg

of the path, these moments you have known,

 

these glorious-rugged breaths;

 

the clock coming to a slow stop

inside this gentle chest.

 

for a brief blink, you will take it all with you;

then you will begin the next forgetting:

 

the forging that allows you to keep existing

until you come face-to-face with the god-frame

 

from which you were sprung.

20141011_165030

our house divided

inside this body are seasons:

orange, brown, white, black, green, pink.

they oscillate in the wind; they keep

trying to tell me who i am.

 

i am a book of years wrapped in

ribbons of non-time; i am matter and

anti-matter dancing along a loop of infinity.

we still do not know what lies at the core.

 

each month i unwrap one year;

every few days is a new moon,

waxing and waning with terror and beauty,

hunger and spirit, numbness and nothing.

 

no one can tell me who i am.

i must move this spectrum through space,

cutting closer to the center:

galvanized by love, rage, curiosity, grace.

 

if you have ever sustained anyone of any age,

you know the cycles we take: trays, cups, utensils, bottles,

napkins, needles piled up all over the house—pills counted

and swallowed, like stuffing wishing coins into a cuckoo clock.

 

we perch and hang onto the edges until we can

no longer fight the urge to lie down, to face

our house divided, to be horizontal like the rolling hills,

waving and watching from a great depth-distance.