I am not doing well. I am doing fine. Both are true.
I need a thousand-year break where I can rest under the moss and become cool like the slick, wet mud. Where I can shed my flesh and become bones. And my bones can be cleaned, chipped away, turned to dust. I can sprout from the earth anew, sometime later. Shoots of wild chives. Earthworms burrowing through the soil. The falling leaves of trees in golden autumn.
And then maybe I’ll feel rested enough to come back to work.
----------
disillusionment we
chase god from personal crisis to
personal crisis trying to make
order rather than
get ourselves swept up in chaos
----------
a mystic a scientist the
way they tell me to breathe to
allow the muscle to wrap around bone around the marrow the
subtle beauty of the lymphatic system and
how we must always believe
there is some sort of magic powering this vessel
some magic so small and soft that when we pin it to the microscope it
is still smaller that
when we position the lens to the greater universe it
is infinitely beyond our sight that
when we touch the tangible
smell the wind
feel its chill
watch the way it moves the branches of trees
taste the flavors carried from a meal-topped fire
hear the howling as it whips up around
we still cannot see the air
know it is there all the same
know something resides in it
powerful enough to knock the wind from us
to lift us
crash us into each other
we observe the symptoms
and believe in a cause or believe in the
absence of cause
both are a release of control to that which
fills every inch of world in and out of us
----------
I am restless. Without rest.
Comments