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Sit up Grow up And we reach higher and higher Away from the ground. Away from the root. Away from the child we once were and will always be. Do you know how to lengthen, to stretch, to grow? A tree must put down roots to become. A tree takes water from those roots, those nursery school games. Learns immediately intrinsic understandings: empathy, kindness, inclusion, friendship, play, joy, laughter, silliness, emotion, resilience, laughter But we lost interest in coming home with grass stains and sticks in our hair. We threw away the will to grow down, get dirty. If only the tree could speak “it’s the only way to reach the sky” I love you arrived
and I looked back to see who sent it. considering carefully are you there? come hold me. The Fog sighed not for a single breath blink of an eye or moment’s slumber have I not been here have you not been held. I ask And I ask God stares I don’t understand the question You’re here. You are. This. All. But something to making each letter count
the beauty and the ease I am seeking The handwriting of my grandfather lives on in me Maybe that’s why I want to know him so bad Gayer writing equals grander ideas But mantras for everything? Om. They say Om. they say we are the we are, the existence is the cause, not formulating a new thought, until the last one is finished. The dexterity hurting my hand my eyes my brain but calming my heart. Singing songs from the cheat chest and not from the bleak infrastructure of human connection beyond thought. All there is, is. All that feels, feels. All that knows, knows nothing. Beyond the outer reaches of gravel lined ages, I stand ready to fill the spirit that called a body, the source that needed my voice my voice. not hidden behind others alone and shone by day’s light. Perfectionism is to live your life as a constant apology.
The Letter T. The Letter H.
What a funny combination Standing Apart A percussion And a Woodwind But together An elision of steam reduced by simmer into a once distilled syrup passed over by most diners Why then? Should one choose the other if the price of marriage is Power Breath Air (Gasp) Shall I speak of love? For what is love, if not a soul's reduction? A softening of the morsels we had come to live by Now a stew of roasted garlic and celery. To think of all that is lost I question what is to be gained The wind howling for a home And in the timpani echoes Find Me, Hold Me, Soften Me. The hardest thing is that in order to let it go, you simply do. We want to hold our bad memories, wrestle them and, this time, come out victorious. But that, in and of itself, is letting the memory, letting the trauma win. To analyze is to summon and inflict the pain all over again.
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AuthorQueer. he/him. Good witch. Archives
October 2022
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