Tuesday, December 29, 2009

He Sings Me

New testaments wrap their lettery fingers up your arms and around your neck
Down your spine and surround your navel like a burnt Aztec sun
Filling pours and collapsing veins til they are all that reign, and rain,
And rain, drenching calloused coverings until the skin glistens like silk
Until eyes are arranged like diamonds
All upon the sky and sun and earth and air
All upon the might and tide and courage and salt
And twisted hopes and wistful cares...


You begin by writing a love letter to Neil Young. To a voice that seems to break with every pluck of a string, an organ's chord.
I'm Pocahontas, Cinnamon, The Golden Hearted Baby, I'm not done. This is for every boy who ever heard this song played, when he gave it away. And now you're left regretfully reminded I am the one.
This letter ends open ended, you dropped the ink on the page in a million different ways, but nothing seems to spell exactly what you mean. This isn't for Neil. This isn't for men. This might be for the world. This might be for all of them. Stars and alien skies.


"You are like a hurricane, there's a calm in your eye...
...I want to love you but I'm getting blown away"


...Testaments that tell of all the mysteries beneath
Things that you picked up, like precious stones, glass washed up along the beach
It's so precious, and you remember
Every time you touch that warm opaque green
That there was a time when you knew some sort of meaning. It never was explained to you, it never was delivered. It wasn't proclaimed to you, you never committed. It was known like the air filled with sandy grains that stung against your skin. Known like the foamy waves that licked around your legs. When birds call, they tell meaning. They sing about growing grass and empty skeleton shells. They sing about forgetting. They sing about finding.
Sometimes this trickles down from above, and brushes begin to paint themselves all along your body.
Your body is a canvas, body mind and soul. And you understand. And you know.

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