Thursday, February 04, 2016

Surface

All the things I want to say I cannot.
Everything I do say is never quite right.
Whatever sticks in the mind is less than half of what I might have said.
I need time but I give it back as bombs.
But do bombs explode or stink?
What repairs the kitchen sink?

Dreams don't make themselves. They take
political action committees of people
surrounded on all sides by relentless indifference
and upturned eyes waiting for the clock
to signal the time for the high from
texting and swiping and posing
so many perfect days and scenes and faces
sending all these minor joys and eternal
posed joys
to the unseen receiver,
that's you,
filling in the place for persistent emptiness
so often overwhelming just living, seeing a
human soul seeing out from within
gentle and curious and captivated
eyes on people who yearn for whatever
will come into their lives and reveal someone cares
enough to want to move people together
so that they can all share in the dreamtime

once more.

I want to be your magician. I want to be your servant. I want to gain glory through you.
I want to work smarter. I want to watch the tree grow into something so large
all the birds of the way will want to make their nests inside its branches.
But we want to show you another way. We want to show you our way.

Scratch the surface, and you leave a scar.
Unless you pass through the skin where the skin invites
intimacy as an exchange of information, as a conversation in chemicals,
there's always a scar. But even so, even when you do pass through the skin
and it does feel good to share some moment in existing joyfully
with another human soul,
there's always a scar when the scratch
is only scratching at the surface.

All the time bombs had been set a long time ago.
It's just the ticking now. Then,
it will be as though enough people cared enough.

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Is this wise?
Is this yours?
Is this love?

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