I am moved. There are beautiful things, so many beautiful things. And these beautiful things teach lessons, the lessons I resist so deeply are suddenly coated with sugar, and are little wondrous things that I simply misunderstood. A kind hand, a warm smile, a blazing sunset guiding me to what wasn’t covered properly the first time around. Filling in the gaps. Smoothing out the ragged edges. Enough for me to realize that I’m doing the same for that beautiful thing. Enough for me to realize that we are fitting each other’s imperfections perfectly. To accept patience and time. To accept that it all falls into place some day.
When I arrive, I want to be greeted
with smiles, maybe an embrace if they are feeling comfortable.
When I arrive, I don’t expect to be on time, or manicured, or perfect.
I will arrive as a whirlwind, a dinged jalopy, a mess of color and sound, a ruckus.
I will turn heads, disappoint, inspire, cause some parents to hide their children’s eyes, cause other parents to ask me to teach theirs.
When I arrive at the end of the war with myself, I will be mangled and disheveled
and I hope that those waiting
at the finish line will forgive me
for the atrocities I committed.
I hope that they will forgive me
as I have had to forgive myself.
All’s fair in love and war,
and even more so when one
is fighting for the right to love one’s self.
Sometimes we look into infinite space and distribute phosphenes into patterns that seem like deliberate imitations of our invention, sometimes we forget where it all begins and ends, in the mind. In the mind.
Finding moments of wonder and beauty teaches us lessons about love. That it is not fleeting, it must be accepted for the way it is, and that it gives back over and over if only we are patient.
Always, in my wildest dreams.
The color of the grass is irrelevant on the other side.
There is nothing and everything in tranquility. Tranquility exists in well-oiled machines and in nature, running cycles smoothly and without reason, just running for our enjoyment or observation. We are incomplete cycles, completed by moments that we think complete us and fully completed only in our death. This is what makes us so beautiful and horrible.
On summer days
and the heart gets colder,
we sit and dream silence.
Together now with no return,
there’s a whisper in our names.
Some day will follow sleep
the ebb of tides not so near
for fear of snow or
drifting, drifting away.
It was a hazy thing in the middle
of day and night, caught by
I was launched by
slingshot memory of the kiss
Colors blur under
fluttering skylights. Haggard
window-washers sweat into soap buckets,
drink whiskey with stars at night,
and remember ancestry in dreams
that fade with dull headaches in
baby watercolor sunrises.