Old 1:
I don’t write anymore. Where once there was thunder now is only cobwebs and dust. What happened? I used to live with passion and anger and fire, and now I’m ice and caution, watch your step-step up again around and I used to breathe-breathe and now I hold it.
Where do you lay down the lines to redraw a life?
Is this how artists die? Do they jump in water and sink to the bottom, drowning to find ancient cities and gold and myrrh? Or do they go out upon the cliff and look down and realize that they brought no rope, and go back for it and have to work and pay for the rope and then they get some and think its not enough so they work some more and save and bye more rope and weeks and months go bye and they wonder what they needed the rope for.
I only wrote this because of Toph. I heard the echo of a light in his voice and it called me back to remember what I was. Where am I? I have fallen off into something and I am safe now and safety is terrifying. Where is the threat of death and loneliness? Where is time that enemy and that comforting torturer? I have God now where I had nothing – I grew up with that reassuring darkness all around me, how can I deal with His ever-present light? And don’t I have to pay for it?
To be who I was I have to die. To be who I could be I have to die. To be who I am is a kind of death, a slow down of heart beats and a slip-slip into the easy arms of repetition, so like a pulse but more like the drip of some narcotic sleep-sleep. Here, open your arms, this is what you should be, like everyone else, here John, take this pill, you will play golf on Saturday’s and have a three bedroom house and two children and they will play football and soccer and grow tall and strong and you will go to church and you will end your life without Him or her and no one will know where you went John you have to reconsider but you can’t leave them all behind.
Old 2:
I had to choose a path and the choices around me were wide and far. I could run in one direction and it could take me so far that I would soon lose sight of the other directions and then I would be self-inflictedly lost and would lose my ability to back track and in a way it is okay because I have already back tracked enough. I have to become an American which means working at jobs we don't like and paying debts we shouldn't owe and wanting picket fences always the picket fences. I am not an American I am a citizen of the Invisible Continent, the Continent that rolls on waves like lost boys in crowds, the Continent that rolls on waves like she rolls on my body, the Continent that rolls on waves like I roll on God, the Continent that is so far away you can never see it unless of course you are standing on it and I am.
You are only beginning to see.
My friends are scattered like the Diaspora like the grapes after picking and the basket is spilled we were never made into the wine that would make the world drunk and giddy some are in the Old World and some are in the Triangle and some are in the Island City of Finance Cutthroats and some are in the forests and some are in the mountains and those are in the valley where I stopped being a madman visionary to Dionysius and became a visionary for Earth and then I moved to the Island of Waves and Invaders and became a visionary for the Buddha and then he gave me to the Word and I became a visionary for the Christ and I fought it and I fought it and I hated it because everything that is in dark hates the light because in the light all is in the open and ashamed and so the dark hates the light and the light is truth and He is the light and now I am done fighting it and I am a Visionary for Him and I will be mocked for it and I don't care but when have I ever.
J
No comments:
Post a Comment