I couldn’t look up any longer; I couldn’t speak up any louder. I just lay on the ground and imagined myself in some distant landing. If I closed my eyes, could I make you and all of this disappear? My pulse sighed in rendered dreams of energy; there I was, my final release to therapeutic presence. Immersed, faded and invisible like one who’s already experienced and channeled. But I haven’t experienced, I have yet to channel. Yet I feel so old. I feel so withered and old. A raisin in the sun, a child looking up at Shel Silverstein’s pizza sun. But I remember being young where the sun engulfed everything you touched and felt and said and cried. I dreamt of nothing because I knew of nothing to dream. Time didn’t find me; it didn’t stalk me until I knew pain. I could cry and it would be the dark ages. I was so young and already eye level with the sun and moon—friends of transcendence in flight. The must of my grandmother’s brown and white lace curtains stuck to my skin and eyes, relics of a golden age where rock-and-roll and desert sun made waves in the sand, and oasis’s in velvet pools and string bean rope trees. Because there you were. There it was. Time meant nothing, it didn’t weigh this energy of now, brief and fleeting and, hold on, step back, cheap. Hang on, wait up. What’s wrong? I’m not now. These tears can’t be taken away. You can’t just keep on saying that someday, someday now I will find a way to forget those goddamn hearts and flowers. Because what if it will all only take this one day, these one tears to say that you aren’t alone in what you fear and what sears every nerve and childish cry. Why did I care so much about that key and the lock to the aged, rosewood Grandfather clock? I would follow the swing, and hope to grow as tall as the wall of vanillin books, ripened with age and travels and voices. Goddammit relinquish control—let me fall and hit hard. Let the sand wash me away so I can sail the seven moons. The sky tells us we can’t go back, but we can live between the two, night and day and eye level all the same. The yin and yang of a child’s heart, or maybe just homesickness for the romanticized. I’ve realized that it wasn’t the specificity of time, but the release of time itself, the ignorance and innocence of a child in relation to an era. The road only went for some time until it was you and the wild—people were wild, not tamed and estranged. What a calamity to no longer feel the wind’s silky wrap, watch lips kiss smoke, feel the sparseness of change and a pay phone, the haunting of all those people before you reaching for the call of home, honey and wine to nameless, weathered voices.
Sweet child of mine, you feel that your hair has grown too fierce and coarse for the comfort of a mother’s hands, soothing the tangles and brushing away your gasping fears that seem to yank you to the floor in a broken water depth, a dragging jerk that pulls you fighting, a cold recluse with no breath. You can’t seem to escape the sea, lying broken in your mother’s hands. Sweet child, you’ve seemed to have forgotten those healing hands, touching your forehead in a pause of hope and light, honing those sun rays and the moon’s pale, seeping chill until breath returned, your chest fell heavy and still. You weren’t blue, you weren’t black, you were coral peach, the dip between the two. Sweet child, you were taken by the sky. You wish to feel the braid of a mother’s hands, the stories of nostalgia and its cratered heart; you wish to smile all the smiles you’ve heard and seen and felt. Lived all the moments, black and white, coral peach, cradled in the lights of stop and go; a mother’s hands balmy sweep and butterfly dance through turbulent and anxious tidal waves, until you are soothed, you are healed.
Wild skies, freed hearts seek solace, “will you ever win?” Those words carpeted the Shirley curls of orange shag, the strung guitar that my mother once held in gypsy rhythm, individual and soul, and me, healing those strings in smiles I’ve heard and seen and felt. Nostalgia fluttered and like melding stars in poetry, glowed like the goddess itself. I was surrounded, a child dripping in nectar calling for the monarch butterflies until they amassed as fields of flowers in the sky—their arched wings each a broken piece of holy, stained glass drenched in golden light, each a broken, wild smile of heaven—the true cathedral in all its pure divinity. I looked up, I spoke, I was overcome.
Listen while reading: http://crystallizedhope.tumblr.com/post/16207156171/crystallineknowledge-her-breath-is-the-wind
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