so slippery symbols. Like milk, like bread or. I am always running away, not slippery but tractless. Not lost just lacking. Direction. I am (never) running. So slipping on wet bread on puddles of milk left over. Am I? hungry. Skin and bones, over run and running over t(r)actless I am so symbolic so oh full through my feet so. I can. Feed. Myself.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
I’m tired of agreeing with yesmakers who make only one kind of rain. Like Oprah. Suffer a million more of your afflictions? Sure. A single false promise or pleasure more hurts more, deadens to a thousand joys, feeds new kinds of bitter roots. But thank you for the gettings soaked, and the way your whispering is. Even when cryptic.
Who else can boast of a husband as I have, Lord? Who else can say of their God, He holds the universe with his left hand, and the brokenhearted with his right? The best I’ve heard of men is that they have a fleeting passion for and a lasting self-control around their wives, and of gods that they draw hearts into imaginary joys and shifting sand beaches with paper waves. But you love fiercely and forever, jealously, to the point of sweating blood and volunteering to be betrayed and mocked and hung up like meat. You, the maker of the ocean and the moon that turns the tides and the sun that warms the earth and the sea within it and gives it life. Who am I to be called “your loved one”? I feel your hands on my face.
Play is real ly important and so is feeling free. The boundary lines have fallen for us in pleasant places, in pastures whose lambs aren’t unthinking but unconcerned: abandon that follows the wind well.
Sure it’s nice to get back to simplicity, me stripped and self-seen baby-skinned, but when you clean out the house and don’t get someone big to live in it, little happy me can’t stand alone against the wolves and thieves.
My neighbors turn the hip hop up till all the echoes of my day are rolled like children in the sea out of my head. Thank you, sir behind the wall, and ma’am, sir’s wife. You see how much sense I make, and dollars, working hard, my dolors hard-working, yes the sea of me seen by drowning eyes.