Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Bump in the night

Dark. Void. Then
A light, far away, blocked.
An outline of curves, hair diffusing light at the edges,
motes of flash slowly then quickly spiraling in air
An outline of features, a drawing in dark of
a silhouette only white at the thin line of a flashlight
farther away, blocked by this in front of me --

I have been a cave wall staring back at nothing

I am now here, sinister glee, sex mad monster
slipped past the blue-green surface
dividing us from Us,
now here in this blurring
Staring in you, deep inside,
far past the flesh, slide through
the red-green mists of mindly waves
images dreaming in mind thick
with shapes and surprises and storydreams
Here in you, my there was you
Now here, now there, now heretherenear
We are through,
the fur and sticking and warm give, the skin
pressing against my face, then
in this mindspace of imagination, an arc shearing off
flesh-tearing white
Light underneath,
shards of white-blue knifing in between the dark

But past even that,
Through and down and beyond the light
there in the darkness behind the light, within
the annihilation of the light, barrier light protecting the
darkness deep inside you, I tore through you
Into the Darkness where you are never there
when you are never there
what you are never there
how you are never there
nothing there

Finding again another skin,
--this small sliver of light escaping from behind
this bump you are in the night
There I find the god in my goddess,
my skysister beneath me, going far away
farther than she has ever been
riding and clinging as she soars
riding this wave of inward drawing outward
learning how to fly, learning that
All winged creatures look ugly when they first sprout wings
But age and learning to fall grows them towards living in the sky
Where anyone can learn to fly

Only, humans with wings do not fly in the air
But in the minds and souls of one another
You taught me that. And you, and you, and you,
maybe even you
But you are the first who tore open yourself
to know that in your own dark and empty nothing
down behind the brilliant annihilism of lightgivinglife
there is something aging
something skinned
something breathing
something sitting
something there in the darkness
between us and the littlest light
So when we tore through even that bump
}the pattern repeats itself{
and once more we cease to exist as just two
but more than two
more than One
less than none

The next day we drove and told no one what had happened, except for people too polite to mention it and others too excited not to with stranger--who weren't so strange anymore after the telling. But years later, at a small sitting with just a few special souls and loves, we indulged in a private conversation about what really happened. Later, much later, biographers pieced together enough of the language and facts and dates to conclude we had a religious experience that forever changed our lives for the better, and it had something to do with sex. Philosophers disagreed and cited lack of belief as rendering this interpretation inconsiderate and false. It's more complicated than that, they say about their interpretation of us, since religion only makes sense as a justification for what they say we are wrote or said about what happened. They argue, it cannot explain how the experience was felt. This existential quality, these philosophers hold, is what makes the entire event not religious, since there is no religion where there is no practice nor ritual, since then everything and anything and nothing become religious events, which is absurd. So they cite. Different philosophers, more versed in anthropology, said they were all missing the point. There isn't a single, definitive way we must interpret the story, but rather how we interpret things says more about our own history up to the point of interpretation, and how we express those interpretations speaks exactly to how we want to rewrite history to include ourselves as part of something already in progress. Thus, no one can say what's the right answer. We're too caught up with ourselves to pay any real and close attention to someone else. Despite, of course, the evidence staring them in the face.

Sometimes the closest reading is the one we let read us first.

We drove there and back the next day, but she *did* tell someone. I just didn't know, so I couldn't get that part of it right. Or...

Maybe she told?

And if so, who?

Who could that be, deep down, deep near, the prisoner in your cave
Does she know how to fly, now? She sang out low and soul, a croon of intense good.
She bore wings and tore through, threw out the blue, and shook out her limbs
That slow then quick shudder they all winged creatures make just as they
Crouch to jump to fly to soar

You were gone when I found you, out and on your stomach
a tiny hand under your chin, wrist at your shoulder lurching
a thumb resting and a grip relaxed and open
the sussuration in and the silence out,
a pattern of your deep sleep I know, know very well
I know a lot about you sleeping. I watched you a lot doing it.
The occasional lighthouse looking for a wave crest desperately
Because I don't know whether I want the stillness or The Ruin
Who Will Never Crash On Rocks
Since neither means I'll have you further
So I must pray for rocks, to make you crest
And I hate my selfish love for knowing how pain
Keeps us forever locked together, dreading accidentally
getting locked out before we've learned from one another
That we know now how to fly
through soreness

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