So many layered colors. Turquaqua. Lemonypeach. Seegreen. Maybe blue. But all pastel. All stacked well. Like so much split up wood laced into a pile. Horizontal line for seabirds to dance on like the words across this one. And the sun isn’t even up yet. Waves are. And crashing too soon. Birds are. In highly anxietized broods, outlining tides trying to keep their feet dry. Cold water. White bearded and hungry. Eating beaches like it was porous bread, squeaking beneath feet fresh cheese curds between teeth disappeared along the backs of throats into an ocean’s endless churning gut. One of the closest things we get to see next to God. Neon peach burning over gently violet horizons. Almost too much to lay eyes on.
Poison ivy, not yet out in leaves, has still broken out on me.
Razed mountains on contaminated wrists and hands.
Just a touch or two, from touching black-coarse-hair-vines gripping pines.
The sweetgums the landowner hates. The fallen colors her husband favors.
And I, bills to pay, and no good not green place to hide.
The destiny of life to be buried in, under, beneath other heavy life.
Weighted with the weight of water. Heavily doused by a rain
dry creek bed awake again sort of winter.
To taunt us back into another dry summer.
Itching beneath cracked leather gloves already,
cracked burnt uprising textured leather hands are steady.
At least for now, they are steady. And the twisted green tips
on the ends of poisoned twiggy whips, are not yet out.
Leaves of three and green.
Arcs in ridge curved backs,
birthing segments of bent ribs,
Waxen skin wanes comfort on peachy flesh,
to make red mounded mountains out of plains of blonde.
Once fingertraced delicately, now dug at bleeding and raw.
Not to hate one’s self, to pull pain hard under sharp fingernails,
but more just the carnal curiosity in an itch. A hidden sensation.
Something to dig for. Force smile and grit teeth.
And root out.
What are the fears keeping me up?
Insuring my morning arrives with tears.
Sadness. A small precise weight laid heavily on a heart.
Clenched like a mad fist. I am growing crazy.
Lunacy. A friend to talk to over coffee.
Who convinced me as a child I had a bleeding heart?
It’s not like I wrote this man mad and depressed. Beaten. Beating.
Bleeding me and all close of our furious and unpredictable brokenness.
I want more than all things to help it along.
Work like a well paid servant for my external biological community.
Family. And not just scattered weekends and weak ends, but the kingdom.
The kingdom of twisted roots tainting everything I remember.
That thought. Making me stay up late and wake up early.
Keeping me frail and ceaselessly surly, perched on the verge of tears.
Betrayal. The betrayal brought to me by a friend I once called brother.
And as well as that discourteous bloody reaction,
there is the betrayal I intend to enact on others.
Slightly yellowed clouds. And slightly golden.
A large ever-present star burning beyond them.
Bright. Drawn back eyes light.
Shiny like the lyrics of a hymn.
Greasing up vapor blocked ridges like a raw egg
boiling across a charcoal color cast iron sky.
From clear and thick to white jiggling flap of skin.
Leftover from a different sort of better fed man.
Clouds grow loose. Less yellow. Less gold.
Only slightly cold. Like that veiled tender hymn.
Awaiting the bird-feathered, bubble-throated
pipe organ of spring to come crashing in.
White men are not white.
Nor are white women white.
All skin hidden under the thick roof of a house stays white.
Sweating beneath thick coat suits and sheened pleated pants.
Pale. Like a ghost wants hidden.
All shy skin, grown colorless over time, needs no more than shame.
Naked shame in the face of a scrutinizing sun.
For a few days in summer white glows like light reflected off salt-dripping skin.
The heat of whole afternoons bakes bread red as the clay beneath feet.
Red like the dirt bodies burn red turning all day.
By the time the leaves on the trees are brown
white women and men will be brown also.
After two or three honest summers,
white becomes what you call someone
who sits too long in the shade.
All life resembles rhetorical answers to questions about existence.
There are no truer conclusions than what is spoken by the passive voices of trees.
Secrets in endless probing roots which explode under and out where trunk meets ground.
A flattish line of quartz and topsoil like choppy water reflecting light in gleams and flashes, whole oceans of deep furrows glimmering like the side of a fish.
But dirt absorbs the light. Holds on to it. Gives back a dull color or two as thanks.
And keeps the rest.
But water is fast-changing, murky flows grow south and clear and confess awkward truth like ignorant youth.
So soil stays broken. Smaller fragments of a former self.
All parts of it translated to nutrient and sediment.
Ready to give us up all the tree secrets.
Nature is the company you will turn to when others deem your operations no longer financially viable.
When the business of aiding your being, safeguarding you against needing, tanks, there agriculture will be. Waiting patiently, as it requires every farmer to do.
So don’t rest, don’t quit, until the major provider of insurance for your life is you.
The byproduct of brushing up against our cosmic, energetic speed limit. We are energy. I am sitting here, typing through a carbon based biological mechanism which has been molded and remolded and even mutated around answering the various needs of surviving in this environment.
But at our core, we are energy, same as light, same as the sun,
same as running in wires and raining from stars.
Once you have learned the entire story of a mountain spring,
you will know the story of very many creeks. And in knowing creeks,
you will come to meet several rivers. And after following rivers,
you will touch oceans.
You will come to know God through learning yourself. Your source.
Studying your needs and limitations, your unique capabilities and strengths.
You are not an island.
You do not survive in isolation.
By the time you have pieced together the entirety of the story of you,
you will have come to know a whole planet. And the way earth
is held in the hands of the sun, so is our sun gripped
by a singularity at the center of our galaxy,
rolled in the palm of an even greater singularity
that off centers our universe,
emitting gravity the way stars put off light.
Crossing infinity to hold us tight.
Because this God has an everlasting affinity toward life.