Something Explains Everything

In still and transition, this is us. You’re here and so am I. It’s rather enjoyable If I had to pitch something. But you know the questions we’ve always been asking don’t seem to find answers. And when people stop thinking their questions will be answered, they get up and go. Where to? I don’t think that matters to the message.

What kind of house do you want to live in? Do you want high ceilings? Must it be sui generis or is the roof enough? I could ask a few more questions, but is it necessary to go that far? Should I invite them over? Are you ready for the destination? She’s a microbiologist, and she tells me the macro-molecules are doing well. I don’t trust her or the science.


I can’t much imagine living in a house like that, because I haven’t spent much time in homes that made me feel like I should stay. This philosopher tells me my reasons are lies, but I can’t help but feel she’s got me all wrong. I know some other fancy titles, but I seem to like the dresses better

You know I’m roots; I don’t fuck with the branches and leaves; I like my hands down in the dirt.

Perhaps There Is Flesh To Be Found Here

We talk about ruins. We hear the echos of empty hallways made for ceremony. And see melted candle wax dripped down the walls, and spilled all across the floors. Something grips this place; An air that stands in the way of those who wants to pass freely. It warns us with shivers down our spine – An almost familiar kiss to our ears and necks. We walk through ruins, and don’t tend to think much of it. Not everyone has the kind of grit, and righteous indignation it takes put the spirits at ease. You want to know this place, its’ pangs, what harmony it deserves to find; You step soft in reverence as if intending to compose a hymn with your innocent discovery.

Are they ours? No, we can’t claim things as alive as this; They are too hard to read. You laugh and say perhaps the dirt might glow, even shine in a jar! I too think and feel this. I can’t help but be eager to try given your childlike enthusiasm – We will have to bring a jar the next time. But I imagine before too long we’ll be picking up handfuls of dirt; Letting it run from our hands, while we take a seat on the earth, and trace the courtyard stones; Stones laid here for us to touch, in ways that we must listen to nature to learn of. We sit quiet for a moment, and the wild comes. Still is the air, but I know how fun you get when you speak with your animal tongue.

There is a spirit to it all, a mind to the matter, and none of it can be solely ours outside of responsibility to what we choose.

The Lost & Gone

It’s been so long since you’ve written. The weeks go by and no new word of you has surfaced. You’ve begun to be buried beneath the passage of life and other dust. This isn’t to say, if I disturbed all the layers, that I’d find you under there; No, I don’t believe this is that type of burial. I know there is far too much drawing you to adventure, too much to expound upon in the native tongue of flesh and touch.

I just wish every once and an exhale, that you find time to use your words. Because for those who miss out on the first hand taste of your actions deserve to know at least second hand what you felt; Like the sunsets taken in before they lived! Paint them like only you can picture.

What are you lost for? You know why we don’t talk straight; We have to keep the meaning hidden. Who wants to read something without any curious mysteries? We can only assume that the other has understood the symbols we have placed along the way. So if you’re following or not, You will read. You will ascribe to me whatever you feel, and that will be that.

At some turn you realized, that this my darling was never about completing anything. We don’t finish, we never end. It fragments, it gets drawn apart, but it’s never ending. Isn’t that most clear when we need another sip only breaths after the last?

You could sit there and let everything pass you by, and surely what you’d come up with is something that no where else exists. I wouldn’t be surprised; But I want you to get out there.

Foresight & Fortune Telling

Do you know how hard it is to see around the corner from 20 meters back?
And now you’re talking about what’s around the bend from here! You make me collapse at the dinner table with laughter, when you go on about the people you’ve had the pleasure of meeting; Some of them are characters I want to put in my books. I doubt I ever will though. I’m always busy acting like I’m too busy to make progress on the story. It would really be a great one, and we know it. Some things you really can see before you go over the cliff. It isn’t a good idea to jump off after this one, since you’d find that unlike your fall, the pages stop about halfway through. If you went up high enough though? You might be able to catch the next installment; I’ve still got breath don’t I baby? So I’m still penning.

I haven’t seen you, I haven’t seen you in – How long has it been?
in a year or maybe ten – It might be ten this August or February;
but it all fits. Whatever the number, It always does,
with us. Yes, we’ve always had snug compositions.

So, gasp – you’re looking blue, ravishing too –
gasp as I kiss you over the waterfalls and down the river ways;
across my seas of mere abandon; I find a seat next to you.
You are sitting right here and I can touch you, as thick as a fog you can’t see through
and we are silent. Absolute, ear ringing silence permeates the veil.
like we’ve been waiting for a better time to speak! Like we’ve been;

All these years in dark undergrowth and canopy layers that a fire would find itself quenched by before anything could burn, all these years spent smoldering, like the last flame has gone out; but we’ve survived
and you don’t need to speak. You didn’t, nor do you, have to say anything,
for me to hear you. Without words my answer was given.

Tomorrow, we’ll part, as we all always do. This is just the ship leaving port. We usually talk about how wild and fantastic it is to make land elsewhere after times spent on the water. It’s nothing dire. It’s nothing we haven’t handled before; It’s just our infrequent pastime – I wouldn’t call it a holiday – but if it was a date I’d mark it.
And again, no tears, no remorse. In a year. Or ten. In another corner, of another world, perhaps in one of the books I’ll leave at a spot I like to frequent, or someplace entirely familiar to forego all that telling;

Our love will
find its way again

I’ve always had a telling for everything,
and it isn’t gold that is in your dreams.