Hands

He wants to put his life on a spinning wheel and let his fingerprints make parallel streaks in the clay. If he could only use his hands to mold his life. His hands are so easy to understand. His brain is so tangled.

Reality Absorbed in Reverie

“Just like spinning plates,”
my consciousness spun around my head.
Suddenly my life had a soundtrack
and then detached—
Frazzled hair with a side of insanity.
I was a lunatic.

A lunatic with heavy eyelids and smashed.
Little green bottles climbed on and soaked in.
I peeled the labels, now undetectable
to the creatures that subsist in earthy dirt.
A lunatic for a moment, for a few obscure instances.

The limiting bulk of me asked
for something different than modest heat.
“Please, no electric temperature
emitting from the wall,” it said.
Little bumps of skin grew
caused by scarce woolen things.
My body shivered, and wet its lips.
Had I known, did I know?

My consciousness stumbled
along a slender path:
a crimson brick bridge with no railings,
no one inch margin to prevent the letters of my dream
paper from slipping off the page,
nothing to save me from diminishing
into the black gravitational pull below.

The face of my psyche
sunk to the ground,
my eyelids, like dragging lures.
In slow motion,
with responsive notes loitering around the building
of my body, I crumbled;
mini pieces of me scattered around.
Awake!
Asleep…

In the middle of a white-walled room,
thick red molecules hung in the air.
The room stained me and I was cherry all over;
I could taste the bleeding red orbs of fruit,
those droplets of pungent crimson life,
now in the upturned curves of my mouth.

A window made of crystal
blue, fish-filled, ocean water
painted me indigo. The window
unfastened itself and the yellow light of a close star
coated my face, dried me off. Salt covered
my abstract body, and I could abstractly taste it.

It all felt natural.
The same as real.
Reality
absorbed in reverie.

The Most of It.

He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff's talus on the other side,
And then in the far distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush - and that was all.

-Robert Frost

Home is a Place.

Florida is my cradle, my birth, my innocence. My memories boil in its heat, my voice reflects its neutrality, its relaxed, retired population. My parents live there, my brother lives there, my grandparents live there, and my cousins, and my aunts, and my sweet sweet cat. And I love all those things, because they are me. And so, I love Florida.

Everything.

Everything is different. It's refreshing and stressful, and at times I feel everything and it fills me with beauty and the roots of my soul penetrate the soil of existence and other times everything overflows and my hands get pruned with pain as they try to grasp the liquid meaning like a solid thing. But there's no way to lose some of it. And overflow only saturates the already beautiful experience with superficiality, and the beauty isn't there anymore, and I'm not there, and I can only see life with blockers on. Panorama is the real thing, panorama on a roof in New York City with the past, present and future upon me; with friends, strangers, and the starless human sky.