Friday, August 14, 2009

stomachs are not vacation places for food

sometimes when the birds sound particularly lovely outside in the trees singing against the overcast sky, i flip myself over so that i can walk around on my hands, and, if it's even possible, they sound somehow lovelier. what is happening inside my brain is this: at first all the red inside me moves like slow motion snails, and for an instant that seems like a moment that is really just a second all the squishy gadgets inside me are wondering just what the hell is going on, and then my veins turn into roller coaster rides for my blood, and every single blood cell has its hands in the air, going round the loops and turns and screaming 'whoooooaaaaaaaa!" and then wham! all at once they cram into my brain like spelunkers dropping into some sort of upside down underground cave and their sudden entrance creates a momentary vaccuum which results in a sonic boom that instantly eradicates all the thoughts that are normally careening around in my head like futuristic Tokyo hovercraft traffic, and in that miniscule fraction of a second that is already pulling away from me, my ears open up a little wider and convey that far off singing to my brain a little clearer and those little tiny creatures singing their great big songs that used to just be the backdrop to my all-important existence have suddenly become the purpose of the whole entire thing and i remember what the word 'lovely' actually means.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

shout stoutly at the volume of slow motion into my somber seashell ears

in the fleeting forest of your glance, my skin gives birth to a thousand buzzing bees. i have seen men dig into the earth and take residence of the sky. i have seen the hacking and the hunger; the quiet crowing of cities at twilight. the life will be spilled from us yet. we know this. it is writ. and in all we do, there is a question. a sailing ship. a handful of bone. drunken wizardry. the answers are why we continue. and yea, though i am lost at sea most moments, when i am laying in the tall grass, as the light declines, watching the pink hills curl themselves about my shoulders, while the bats beat blindly through the ether, and the crickets make music of their bodies with the meandering melancholic notes breaking their own hearts, in those last hours, at least, there is some comfort.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

broken trees marching to war

the way the heat sits, you would think the whole of the land was a furious kitchen. the sweat and the dust and the crumpled paper smiles. We fling ourselves through this world, bouncing off of each other, just to see where we will land. The music crept inside me last night. It jostled these rickety limbs like forests of muscle and bone in a thunderstorm of clanging guitars and harmony. The lesson here is simple: no matter how hard you dance or stomp or crash yourself against the ground, you will not move the planet. The trick is to do it anyway, as though you can.