discorporating to integrate
what I should and can’t now by now
standing on the street
outside looking in and I
genuinely forget how old I am. (23, 24?)
Is this it? The slippage of time? How long has this been happening?
we all rely heavily on
family albums to remember what came before our
who we were and the where we came from.
Every notch in the story-stick is there for some reason.
The tree rings DO retain the lesson of each wet to dry season.
Walking usually means practicing to fly but today it was a swivel, the natural samba os snakes rhythm, belly flat on the ground, the cool pavement and collaged debris of November damp and folding in on itself like dough on the table.
Every write with a place to know, this sense of the roots, can distill that light and vinegar in a glass jar to be dug up and read by a hungry pair of eyes not quite ready for setting. And those eyes recall this:
Milky Way kaleidoscope sky spinning out above, between, inside us (all the time) and coming up the hill in the pitch blackness of pre-dawn, sitting in the truck eating pancake breakfasts and now,
spilling through grape vine leaves, that same light, past the cream curtains and unto the wooden floor that lines the bedroom she keeps clean to evoke the inner dojo.
The stone and cement pathway between the houses, mosaic and slippery when wet, the humid density of bodies in the house eating, animals eagerly watching for scraps, the peace pipe passed between friends and wondering,
“am I doing enough?”.
Time is dripping on a binary pathway
or the days are just unfolding and the in-between is suspension
without the machinery just
tying knots with story recorded on hand-marbled paper I’m about to send in the
Morning is lively with songbirds or lazy rumpled warm sheets in bed.
I don’t forget what I’m walking on, just what I’m moving towards.