I drink from cupped hands, fresh water, fresh blood, fresh weeping. There is iron in our skin, solder. You play a winter melody like it’s a hearth fire. Hungry, hungry, whole, watching our souls ripple outwards. We are our stories.
God, it’s finally spring. I can feel my face burning as I read out on the patio this morning. I wish that spring meant something other than an unfounded, unsubstantiated brightness that threatens oblivion and a terrible headache. But drunken monotony is better when it’s sunlit. My thoughts move more freely under the blue sky. I don’t feel like my words have to reflect the view out my window. There's no window, only air, too much air to breathe.
I’m barefoot, lying in my aunt and uncle's courtyard. I’m the only one on vacation, the only one for whom the city with its neat neighborhood blocks lined with cherry trees and people walking their well-bred dogs, is an escape. I’m the only one for whom the conventional American Dream is an escape.
We, big-brained humans, distill the sensual into semiotics. But cracked open, cracked up, stopped at the stop sign, I’m made aware of the prickly hairs growing out of my skin, of the virulent grass pushing through the cement.
It's semantics really; are we expanding inwards or outwards?
It’s a clear day. The sky is blue. The grass is green. And we are driving down the highway. The journey is marked by spastic bursts of conversation and a chunkily categorized landscape. I press my nose to the glass and point. There go the suburbs, the farmlands, the mountains. We are squished between moments, reckoning with a folded horizon.
A highway is a strip of land, paved over, with bold yellow stripes running down its center. It’s a dead snake. It’s everything it has crushed, everything it has pushed to its periphery. And it’s nothing, a vacuum with the sole purpose of transporting our consciousness from one location to another. A highway is a portal forced to exist in conventional space. It’s a portal stretched thin.
I wanted to experience Catholicism, the ritual of eating God on a dreary Sunday morning. So last winter, I hauled myself up the hill to St Mary’s Star of the Sea, only to find that mass was conducted in Spanish and that God’s dismembered body was reserved for initiates.
Is it too late for me to understand the rhythm of the ritual? Too late to flesh out my flesh? Too late to learn Spanish… Latin… Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic? Elohim, your name is plural. I am who I am. You are who you are. We are who we are. Are we separate? Or are we whole.
I want to kneel before beeswax candles, to feel God’s grace behind the stochastic incandescence of our light. I want to passionately believe what my ancestors knew. Dear, Mr, Sir, Your Majesty, Your Eminence, The Pope, give me a prayer book. I’ll repeat the words until they become palpable, palatable, poetry.
The refrigerator has skin. It hums, cold through the cold night, singing to itself. There is an emptiness wound into our mechanisms. In the dark, I poured myself a cup of orange juice. Acid, lips, lungs, I couldn't swallow; I rejected the sun. Like refrigerators, we are haunted by a timeless past. We hum our ancestral melodies to keep our insides from spoiling. I once heard a story about a cat. It barfed up its guts after drinking antifreeze. I like to think it survived. a costume of itself, it continued to purr.
between piano chords, we listen to the rain fall. It splashes into the river. I am gone, lost through holes knife-point whittled into a set of reed pipes, lost to the rising wetland water. Each heart-beat is scattered, coordinated like a flight of swallows.
Homesexual romance is like a broken mirror. Two friends, two lovers, miss-matched comedies and tragedies. You’re my better half, seen through a raindrop, wobbling with delicate viscosity and falling with perfect arrowdynamic slant.
Our bones are one. Our flesh is separate and stinking with perfume. In a series of dancing angles, we break like silk. We share our breath, our dream-scarred cigarette smoke, our deep-belly sorrow, through the sacred gate of our lips.
To love is to desire the goddess, to lose yourself between beats.