If I Were To…
If I were to write a story, it would be about the light in everyone. The grace given and enjoyed in every moment. Continuous, unbroken across every bit of gossamer that constitutes our being.
I would write lies, whole books of lies. Just so people could laugh enough, trust enough, relax enough— to see the brightness that is their nature. I would throw myself into hell because of those lies. It would be worth it if people might see, believe.
I have a toothache and have little patience for arguments over the place settings. Let’s not care about whether the soup spoon is next to the weird fork with three tines. Write music right here on the table cloth. Make love upon it. Draw. Have a food fight, little pats of butter squealing like only they can hear as they hang from the ceiling.
We’re all like those pats of butter. We’re all hanging on for dear life. Squealing like only we can hear. Probably more like screaming, sobbing. Let’s not argue about the medicines. Let’s just take them. We forgot we’re actually human. Maybe got conned out of our humanity. But that light is totally human. As physiological as this bile, this snot.
I remember standing on the deck, watching the sun come up. The sky cracked, bits of the slate blue tinged with orange fell out of it like eggshell. No dragons or angels stowed up there like old luggage. Just light. Brightness. Love. I remember the locket of your heart opening, and all the sparrows of light filling our bed. Lost in your hair, eyes. Filling the room like a warm honey. A glowing honey of desire. That old hound, slobbering on my face, a spit of luminosity. Stars as eyes, fire of devotion from its salivary glands.
There is a little girl, playing in the leaves. She delights at the propellers from the maples. Tossing them up as fresh ones break the tethers and fall from their mother the first time. Pay attention. Just her joy holds this whole thing together. Her smiles, her giggles. Cementing every bit of all of us together. Not just her. But she’s the easiest to see, feel. Recognize. A tether between heaven and earth. Between our hearts and this world of maple propellers…
I would write lies, whole books of lies. Just so people could laugh enough, trust enough, relax enough— to see the brightness that is their nature. I would throw myself into hell because of those lies. It would be worth it if people might see, believe.
I have a toothache and have little patience for arguments over the place settings. Let’s not care about whether the soup spoon is next to the weird fork with three tines. Write music right here on the table cloth. Make love upon it. Draw. Have a food fight, little pats of butter squealing like only they can hear as they hang from the ceiling.
We’re all like those pats of butter. We’re all hanging on for dear life. Squealing like only we can hear. Probably more like screaming, sobbing. Let’s not argue about the medicines. Let’s just take them. We forgot we’re actually human. Maybe got conned out of our humanity. But that light is totally human. As physiological as this bile, this snot.
I remember standing on the deck, watching the sun come up. The sky cracked, bits of the slate blue tinged with orange fell out of it like eggshell. No dragons or angels stowed up there like old luggage. Just light. Brightness. Love. I remember the locket of your heart opening, and all the sparrows of light filling our bed. Lost in your hair, eyes. Filling the room like a warm honey. A glowing honey of desire. That old hound, slobbering on my face, a spit of luminosity. Stars as eyes, fire of devotion from its salivary glands.
There is a little girl, playing in the leaves. She delights at the propellers from the maples. Tossing them up as fresh ones break the tethers and fall from their mother the first time. Pay attention. Just her joy holds this whole thing together. Her smiles, her giggles. Cementing every bit of all of us together. Not just her. But she’s the easiest to see, feel. Recognize. A tether between heaven and earth. Between our hearts and this world of maple propellers…
