it was said that this would be the time of my life. sometimes, it is. days wear sunlight and i can hear an ocean miles away. some of the salt is found in my cup.
other times, though, i sit here, baked by the sun, burnt by it, thinking what it means to be turned inside out. i try to find out. i stick my hands in the pain of the empty, squeeze a heart to a head, slop it in the mouth, explain that i needed something to prop it all open, to keep it stable. the terrified terrible thing is still, dead months ago.
these messages are too, backwards little teethy things, reflections on reflections. the mirror is dirty, the water is drowning on itself.
but i remember how we swam in lakes of ontario, how we failed to see ourself in the waters of gasoline. how many lives ago was that? how was green water so blue?
wherever you are, know that those waters are still clean, though they are tremendously polluted; that you told me to keep going, even if this must stop; and that even if this is not the time of my life, i am at least living to witness the worst.
it remains so lively, especially, i suppose, without much remaining anymore. this is natural – i am told those oceans too are losing their fish. we may have been the last of our kind.
above is from a book of poetry i’ve written, entitled “a mess of you everywhere inside of me“.
it is for you. it is about you. it will tell you how to be you again. get a copy here: https://goo.gl/zsyqVD