This bridge holds you, keeps you still as you cross, hold your breath, pick your feet up for good luck. Its weight takes yours like breath. You cross through its parts not aware of the lie. Eat your little egg breakfast, balance Early Grey to songs you sing in a tone that stays confined to these walls.
This is where you go to gather stories like acorns. History stands up to you on this spot as it passes.
You’re still
Alone, still sit
at the driver’s side seat.
The sound of your voice is all that fills
you, like a house that’s filled with stories
pushing out towards its edges.
Like a flower, closing in on its scent.
This is how I remember you: eleven, your hands grip tightly at slick suspension cables that shake with each step. Rain makes everything shiny, slippery. We commit with each step, reach for moving ground to plant us. Pretend we’ll be here always, pretend there’s nowhere else we could be.
Almost believe it, as long as this bridge holds us.
Ey, guys I changed the look, to one that I thought was more friendly.
If you don't like it please let me know or change it.
Hugs
I have been delivered
I was born a few days ago
I carry the responsability of this mind, body and soul
their relatioships are mine to develop
and their one'ness my goal
I see so much, but I see nothing
I hear so much, but I hear mostly silence
I feel so much
but I am not there
I am there, and everywhere
The world dances
but I am still
The world changes
I do not
The world is still
but it's only I who changes
We dance together
I am here
I exist
I see you
I see me
I, yes I
I've been waiting so long,
for this moment
the time of truth
the awakening
the opening of my eyes
to the depthness of my being
I am full
I am in love
as it is my nature
I feel I
I live in I
I move thru and in I
I see only I
hear only I
So I am I
I might be dreaming as I remember now, feel my memory shake and grasp at people who disappear. The reaching creates empty air like ghosts. This thought is like a flower and it falls further from me each time.
The flaming fuselage screams through space,
spinning,
out of control.
I paint the sky with violence;
a jab, a hook; I back-hand a
lipstick smear and pock the
cloudscape with curses.
Anything the appropriate size
for kicking and stomping catches Hell.
I am Goliath, rampant.
Watch out World!
When I reflect on
cowardice and bravery:
is one of them more wise,
the other knavery?
You sit alone in a memory, your mornings part of me now as I move through a space that doesn’t hold you anymore. No one knows I’m here.
Like 10 years earlier: marmalade on toast, small teacup, half-grapefruit. I’ll watch you in pyjamas from the dining room, your glass figurines as fragile as me, invisibile.
"I must've kneeled in the wrong place,
and prayed to the wrong god."
Sometimes maps don't do the
territory justice. How do you
account for culture, language,
and social (mis) demeanor?
The subtleties and xenophobia
hang like wet clothing and
inappropriate fashion decisions.
I walk out of step. (People stare
if you're the only one who isn't afraid)
What makes us weird? How do I get past
my prejudice for comport, affect and mannerism,
when people seek to cast feces and howl?
This is where I find your memory: the spot where skin meets, softly traces another’s outline as it recognizes itself. A place in this old house holds pictures I once did, condensed to small parts.
You talked as your mouth made shapes. No sounds just pictures I found to go with shapes. I saw that girl collapse in your living room, saw parts of me moving as you did.
I pretended to move with you. Not your words but mine are now space bars between us.
We speak intimacy into some small parts touching, mingle breath like braids as they weave through spaces inside, between. This closeness is like air waiting. I’m waiting. I carry your weight in memories.
Fudge-snacking and sludge-packing;
engines pumping sleaze,
wheeze like a lech and retch
into the gutter
and sputter
and spit,
having fits,
skin splits from
contusions,
bruises,
pus sluices
from
the damnable,
corrupted,
flesh.
