The special one. You are two. Three is a thrill the-like-of-which we’ll not see soon. You see saw past tents into grammatical cabins syntactical picnic tables. Math matters math ticks, sinks relationships people click attraction creates addition impervious to division.
Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of subtraction negatives multiply into positives. Integers compound and grammar officiates a union that inspires equal with confounds. I have found magic in words. Learned the alchemical origins of communication. Rules are worms for premature birds. Conditions are by nature conditional. Make up new traditions. Nothing’s more traditional.
I have a purse full of thoughts and comments ridiculously well-worded criticisms I clutch tight while you walk too close to me for comfort past me on the sidewalk side-piece cheating on the street. I bite my tongue then swallow the meat. I have nothing else to eat. Oftentimes I pray a little curse to the one true God I keep, to stuff you in a sack tied tight with all the mistakes you’ve ever given me. Stitched on the bag: fixed. Says it on my bag too. Full of bitten words aimed at a taste of you. I’ve eaten a ton of tongue. Penned a hundred letters I’ll never send explaining the way the world works because we don’t.
Peeling pines, slicing sap, raw chicken under that, turning trees into fence posts, hands into tape, reshape sticks so they can be stuck eight feet apart along a property line older than I am. The land is the oldest member of the family. With some grandchildren pushing half a century. We could build a barn from a thinning, a clear cutting would only be the beginning of paying the bills and paving the fields that stretch pasture horizons. So I’m building fences the way Noah did his boat. Like a crazy person. Doing more work to pay into a belief than some do to pay their bills. Building to fulfill a future billing. One only I can see through the trees, which are thick and stifling, and create long winding hallways like the labyrinth planted by dead grandpa Dedalus, his one and only son couldn’t help but fly so close to the other one, forty years spent self-exiled from his own inheritance. So his wings melted. Feathers scattered. Wax splattered.
When I got here, a Minotaur was running the farm milking swollen titans and twisting venomous serpents striped the stumps, Medusa did no chores but loved to hump, hissing valkyries laid their eggs but no one came to collect them, no one cut the grass, no one shut the gate. When I got here, the land was farmed by fate. I showed up ten years too late. Like some kind of agricultural Theseus. Still trying and almost dying to prove our selves to parents who don’t belong to us, and who we never belonged to in the first place.
Humanity, forever children, just, children of the Gods.
Take and plant this seed. Be patient, soon we’ll eat. For now, give it to darkness. Same place all else grows rotten. And see this seed will grow. But change is not soon stopping. With water, sunlight, and timing, this seed soon will be vining. Then take and eat these beans. Months ago you held as seeds. Think how we had nothing, we still planted the seed.
Now deep inside yourself, highest on the shelf, buried in soil spelled soul. Look hard within your self, and know. You were once this seed. Seeds still there inside you. The bitter and tooth-breaking. Least sweet, and least worth tasting.
Here comes the farmer now. One who respells soil soul. The one who gathers seeds. Not food or fruit, seeds alone. Be bitter, or be sweet. We are not judged by how we taste. But instead by what we wasted, because we never tasted. Sweetness isn’t the destination. It was only ever the bait.
Sincerely seven AM. Hard to lie once you’re up in the morning. The animals make noise. The kid climbs into bed, again. Sporadic drips tap the rain gutter on the bottom. A little blue-gray daylight weakly fingers the blinds. The mind’s eye only opens wide. Until two lackeys on the front of your face pop the lid. There’s a smile on the face of the kid, though his eyes are still closed behind blonde eyelids.
Once one of the three of us passes gas and all conscious chuckle. The quiet buckles. By seven thirty four feet hit the floor and we’re all upright individuals after a long night of telling lies. We brake fast for breakfast but it only takes the first bite to fill us. The rain has plans changed and the temptation in the word wait increases like puddles in the yard. Someone will tend to the farm. The other will straighten up house. And the kid. He’s a lucky one. But even water grows tired of heaven. Woke up at seven. To the sound of it going back to bed.
All the thoughts in my head are formatted with question marks chasing after them. I would know nothing if not for confusion.. Questions made me who I am. Like who am I? What is I. Eyes can’t see. Ice on the grass. For the first time since seven months ago. Seems so long. So any questions answered since. Makes my head spin. Questions turn the earth. For many reasons. For at least four seasons.
How is this man my teacher, stretched out and lost meaning-reacher, whose mind fell out through the bleachers lost thought-blood to the leechers.
I’ve reached the end of my rhyme but I still have time lines left to right and slowly down icky sticky stuck on itchy notary sticky note poetry. Wow. I see how he is my teacher. Now. Though I think he’d prefer to play preacher.
could be cleaned should would in another house squeaking beneath a different hand window-broken wall in this house above this hand not under it revealing blurred movement through a dingy window.
The light it splashes across the page broken by shadows intersecting lines zagging dull trails where moisture streaked dripped leaves a white trail beside white swipes of misplaced paint brushes missing marks by miles in the center of the pane shadow most solid on the page.
The window won’t ever be cleaned yet tells more than the impenetrable tale of a backyard. Jotted over with notes off the nose of a dog a strained prose on the topic curiosity, poetry of lazy painters paid hourly and more fingerprints than detectives dust proof irrefutable and close to clear that here this dingy window I am closest to the world.
Oh you life, pompous and loud, loopy yet proud. Lightning crashing parties in heaven. At the entrance telling lies that barrel down deep like thunder, a second too late, truth debates shaking ground from sound, flustered, rippled air. The clouds hoisted rain withheld, dangled, above head, just out of reach, beyond, water in aerated ascended ponds casting shade and crooked lines so thin you can see through them, translucent, as rain rapidly sinking, the ferocious storms of real, devoted thinking, consideration. Uncompromising. Life, oh, how there are those who paint you anywhere other than in raging weather, wind leaves trees giant rustled chickens flashing pale upturned feathers, branches falling crashed lightning but closer, nearer, thunder felt under feet, in ankles, before there is time to even hear. There are those who do not know the meaning of awe. Most feel only frightened, tired, ducking heads, cowering out of the rain, cursing an unknown creator seed-planting our pain. Oh my life.
When I was a child, how I loved the sunny dispositions of my parents. And vilified heir strifes. The complex truth of their lives. The disparate realities of parents.
Oh life, like parents, your love, your presence, is one of many forms. But it wasn’t until I was grown and worn, that I found comfort in storms.