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I ride the bus and notice the electric lines made of streetlights - pale reflections in the gutter. over time there is a collapse inward, like footsteps on the beach, sand crumbling beneath your toes – you watch the corner of the moon dangle its crooked smile over the ocean. Right there we collapsed on our backs laughing against the annihilation we knew waited for us at the end of everything.
The song you sang reminded me of a girl I loved once (and how she spoke) except, you are not pretty - like she was - so no one will hear how the wind bends around the distance of syllables spread out from your lips, while drowning in the desert, you sing of a beautiful thirst.
I like to lick ice cream from your breasts when our house is so hot your legs melt around my face dripping wet lips of turning into drool I hang below like Kundalini, all coiled up and present in the moment and stuff, yeah.
The only thing you have control over is what you think.
Love has a beginning, middle, and an end. Whether death or time or conflict takes your lover away, do not lament the natural order. I would not rejoice either since nature is a cruel mother, creating food from infants for vultures.
If we live successive incarnations but do not remember our prior lives, and our ego is subject to disintegration each time we die – then all the nihilists are right, regardless of the soul. Experience shapes the fundamental aspects of who we are, and without the recollection of what has happened to us we cannot participate in our development as human beings or souls of the universe.
We arrive late, sleepy eyed and watching ourselves in the reflection of our parents eyes. As the intangible we desired form, an expression of self.
Without fail, we want skin to register the brush of lips and lungs to tell sighs to each other on sleepless nights.
There is no desire without a heart for sorrow, no lust without an object of affection.
No dying until we’re born, and no leaving till we stayed long enough to know we will miss what we never had.
II
Ella imagined it. Her kid with withered fingers scratching at the door, scraggly sticks for digits, his flimsy paper skin a mottled parchment membrane. “It was not like this when I could have been a mother, or younger,” she said. During daylight hours, every other’s living is a killing she won’t ever comprehend.
“What I mean,” she said, and drew a breath, “ our ghosts are never given rest.” “We were careless as kids,” I said.
Yesterday snuck up on Ella again, left the edges of memory a little softer, hazy impressions of photographs, the outlines of faces faded into a child she could not carry and become company when age has turned to silence – - when laughter doesn’t happen in her life without knowing someone who did not have it.
Edward Estlin tread the poem that is a tribute here
Serry liked the points of r a i n that fell between the seven wheres and whens if forever D N E A C D like liquid on her LIPS.
she spoke the rays of sun singing between the slips and gives that have not made forever sames the single feat,
Whoever longed the freedom and miss stood under Earth and birds and sands of clay, time pressed flowers on the face of glass some reality peered across and went the end where toenails dug a gravestone for the birth of days.
All the oceans drank by lakes, girls s p r e a d bare her palsied face.
If Serry wanted likes to look and smell breaths below her WindoWsill she told no’s ever whisper-ever take Regret would end a harshest faiTh.
I watched her smile trace tiny fractures beneath her eyes, little slivers of consternation the sea wrapped itself in.
I wanted her to kiss beneath my chin smile up at me say something about how wonderful life is when lived. . .
Later I came outside to smoke and remember, reflect a little bit on how her fingertips left my leg trembling - and saw a bird with its neck broken, fractured against a glass building nestled like sleep, a rock bed beneath.
Her lips moved without her voice. "I dance between the rain."
But I did not hear her. Instead, I heard the dead bird not singing.
Midnight drips liquid stars to the sound of my s h i t t y radio. Snow billows down to cover the wrinkles in the song, a throng of voices shake the atmosphere into itself and embrace the illusion of water boiling onto the stove while I sit here and float. . .
My sister calls me from the East coast, I can hear her loneliness bouncing through the phone lines – drug addicted husband, unstable brother, crazy mother. . . this is what we’ve inherited Mary, the loneliness of words.
I am the skeleton of a white lotus. My blossom arms have dissolved to leave only the remnants of the architecture that once supported them.
I sat inebriated by the blurring of boundaries – matter exists without time, but time does not exist without the illusory motion of objects in space.
Enlightenment is not the enlargement of self nor the absence. It is the unification of the substrata of our universe within ourselves.
The blossom wilts in time but remains a tangible universal memory recorded on the ether, unendingly giving forth redolent dissemination of its Absolute idea.
As Ouspensky dreams of the differentiation between an idea and the object it represents – a vast sea of people are perpetually frozen in an instant state of infinite ending and beginning.
This is just the skeleton of an Absolute idea, not the idea represented accurately, but without perpetuation all concepts would remain an osseous framework – never ending never beginning.
I am now remembering a past life where I walked into my son’s room and he was sitting silently by the window. He said he was looking for other children – on other worlds who could understand how it felt to fall in love at a young age.
I didn’t think much of it then but now I’m called back to wonder if that past life is still happening in the timelessness of infinity? And, if it is – could I reach out to him? Let him know I’m looking out the window and still thinking about my child from another life?
Beneath my feet sand crumbled and filled the gaps between my toes where the skin clings to bone.
I looked out over the beach and saw a drifting mist and I wanted to go back in time and see if the creatures that labored over the ground and scrounged from the ocean all were made in the same glory, as say, the light reflecting on a lake in summer.
Have you ever felt like there was some intricate part of life you had never seen? Ever, just once, felt like you could slip upwards and end up in the vapor above the Earth with clusters of sunlight on fire like synapses and I know There are some things the physical being can only perceive like shadows in a dream.