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the_worst_part
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littlebird
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is the waiting.
seeing his fist
cocked --
not yet swinging into its
silent arc.
knowing
that i have really messed up
this time.
here it comes.
i wait,
for the trap door to steal the slack from the noose
for the floor to greet the dropped glass
for the poised oar to break the water
get it over with, already.
in that forever-moment
I think I should
beg,
run,
or apologize for something.
but a fire cannot be put out
with a mouthful of spittle.
it is not the fear,
or the lingering purpled marks
that grind my soul into so much powder.
but the stone inevitability
of what will happen,
over and over.
captor, judge and executioner --
here it comes.
knuckles meet flesh
in a meaty explosion.
freed by his fist,
i float above, relieved and watching.
i am --
the sunbeam peeking through the window,
the steam wafting from the cooling kettle into the air,
the spider spinning in a ceiling corner.
silent witnesses, all.
i hover
outside myself,
untouchable.
waiting to receive
what comes next.
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030508
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050402
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... |
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050512
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... |
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****
|
is that the wait is never really over
|
050512
|
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... |
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dan
|
until finally cell by cell, you are new again, and neuron by neuron renewed again, expectations, framing, all reshaping. Always your brain stem may have ingrained the flicker of responsiveness, but day to day, you can leave the past and step into the now, trust and love and explore, be and experience more freely than a child ever did.
You can know heaven and taste it and know its value because you have known hell to compare it against into meaningfullness. You would fight to keep any piece of heaven that comes within reach. You know the value.
You know the antithesis of how you want to be and can make a clear, sharp, reverse mould to pour yourself into a new casting for life.
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050911
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... |
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egger
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treasures this blathe. beauteousness. curtises.
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050911
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