It is always early. And one hand moves, until it is another’s turn to move and then they both move, then it is another’s turn to move and then all three move. And the first hand continues until the companion returns and then they both carry on until they are once again made whole. And then the first hand speeds along, the outsider feels rejected, the adjudicator grows hoarse. And then the first hand disappears, the vindicated ignores, the serpent rehashes. For Heaven is never late.
I have long tried to deceive myself to avoid becoming inconclusive. My only metaphor is a strainer….and all that passes thru becomes travelers and guests. They are many and I am not offended. For those who are not up to inspection or refuse the cue to pass, I dream about and take great pleasure in being a part of their narrow recital. Of course the story is never complete, and when I awake, in my paws, I only find the crumbs. I am happy that soon all I can imagine will be polished and the binate analogy of privilege will find a way to carry on. Directly speaking, my lamentations are ridiculous, but undulating thought is as gratifying an excuse for being a babbler, as licking my toes keeps me from being forced to talk or prancing a top a sharpened introduction to a fib.
There is God and there is pain…somewhere in between there is a can opener.
Implication…that is a drizzling refrain best left in the company of the impervious lid. Surprised at the perspective? Nod your head along with the obligatory tune. For now, I am perfectly chosen to groom the grass and calibrate the compass. Don’t blink, or else you might miss Atlas taking a break. Neither of us are strong enough without the partnering weight. Living without the excuse of a reason or unbalanced without the aid of the crutch. Free to follow or be unveiled. Maybe…simply to be read again. Turning the hand with all your might…could the impasse yield a new figure? Assuming all that can now compel, can also now conclude. The proof eschews the lever.
In a world with no identities or beliefs, there are words and there are spaces. They have only the loosest of associations, no more so than a family occupying a table in a diner and an off course traveler pacing the men’s room in hopes of staying awake. Is orange a delicacy that should be celebrated or should the rules for using the facilities be rearranged?
Sometimes it’s just better to remember that treats are eternal… and yet…that’s why we miss them so much when they eventually lose their taste.
that was not my ego talking, but rather the pondering of disguised emotions that
dampened both my cheeks. It hardly qualified as a blessing, for uncertainty is just a belief that deliberately chooses to crease, as the memory apologetically folds away. I stored what I could and allowed the others to disappear beyond the horizon, their heads refused to turn, they were not angry, they were only moving on. In the softness of the moment, I pinned my shoulders back and perched above the sighs. Serenity was overstated, there was little difference between a bright blue sky and a pile
of broken sticks . As I removed the film from my gaze, the rest of me listened
and wondered how everything could be so beautiful, yet the first touches were now remembered as colorless and cold. Maybe that is why I was suddenly talking to blue jays and missing the smell of morning. I saw an angry fox playing a banjo under a tree. He could not get the chords right no matter how many times he chose to start again. But he was determined and I understood. Perseverance without a plan does little but drive one mad. Now there was increased stuttering, still the words that fell in line, did so as part of a divine parade. To this day, I am not sure if anyone noticed the hand of God. But it was there and I felt rather brave. Unmasked, I was thankful it was you and your love that made me weep.
Heads were turning in the distance, crying no longer made me sad.
I must go now…trust then believe…it is not what I should want…but a covenant you shall receive. Remember when we arrived? You found me small, hungry and alone. I was not broken…but I became so…under careful amplification of your credulous eye. Not in the meaning that you always forgave…but rather in what was agreed upon without your consent. An incompatible accord…when you asked for too much, I came up with too little. All of this makes insoluble sense beyond the well-trained barriers…but consider the time we had…for we laid the stones together. Why do I implore you to return to the site of so much pain? Because in between all of the layers that kept you from getting too close…there were tiny pieces of misdirection…that when decoded…assembled perfectly into the only choice that was left for me to make. So in shedding the remaining parts…my honesty…I shall pack…dutifully obeyed. In the whiskers and the fur you will find…a curious path that needs new stones…a possibility still unlaid.
My faith is much like the discovery of an insecure word that is as skittish as a long, forgotten season… rather than fearing the retreat… into a mislaid interpretation…I enjoy the calm of remembering when…and the context of the intended manifestation.