and the stories we tell by it
This, but a voice in a symphony of peace perpetrators, harmony seekers, reflectors of the condition of the human condition — the planet we live in in time and space that is ancient in our bones felt each morning surge to the fore of our now translated stardust into DNA, ideas into artifacts, love into a newborn’s yawn, rain into lovers’ bodily proclamations in warm naked embrace in this position, third from a sun, burning our skin, loving it into tender red and brown, into a day’s first thought and night’s last sight on a spinning tail of what ifs at the outskirts of the milky way’s swirling trails.
There, amongst the vast blank of space, the people we are stuck in traffic with, the hours spent on our phones, many as many as milky cup stains across this paper produced by andromeda holdings, registered in 1984, stamped by that commercial outburst from a human heart and man’s hunt for solid ground to stake his view. His handprint on a cave there, bright red ore on his eyes, hours of labor behind him in ancestral formula.
That vestigial tail spinning in this clock’s hours around and around, ticking, clicking, smacking on that wall, leaving its mark forever gone — no trace but in memory of a grandfather’s day digging trenches to find that red and this arm will be next to his to expose our bond of vapor across time tied in lines seen backwards in the back of a woman’s head, her hair, her shoulders, the arch of her waist, legs, her hereditary trait to carry 9 units of someone’s ideas coming to live here.
She holds space in those curves of history coming from those shadows to birth fire of sense making sex, making me and you: you there, me here — apart in our own galactic islands throwing ropes to pull to a center we want to reach. The center of each other at the center of that magmatic middle, stopped into the center of this galaxy centrally located in this universe — coordinates we draw, speak into each others’ sparks, coaxing the light out to this night to see into your eyes, you into my eyes, whisper names we were given, granted our plot of land in these marching hours we seek in each others hands to hold in the deep dark. To slap in the thigh laugh that light gone too soon in a blink that brought this here.
That blinking that continues from there to there, forgotten, invisible, only here, an unknown binding force repels too, crushes stardust into pharmaceutical grade panadol to ease that pain in this question in three business days so I can carry on life gazing in pieces of my memories’ inherited stories, constructed cities with their streets to get us from our friend’s house to our lover’s arms from our last talk to our current tears
**sometimes writing in ‘structure’ feels like leaving out those in betweens, those negative spaces and pauses that give meaning to the rest. writing this piece in this way felt complete. I hope you glean something from it despite the experimental nature of the flow.
