The Hat Of The World

What is the pantry and what the relic, what the groundsman and what the fuse, what the fidgeter and what the quay? The pants and the sheets and the queasy feeling and the trying after glory and the dancing and the apartments and the staying and the leaving and the breathing. The it, the it, the it, the identification of it, the shining, the sadness, the shine and sadness and lightning and stability of children and stomach. And seeing, the them, the endless them, the them-ing and the us-ing and the we-ing and the fleeing and returning and going and simple happiness of making words and going with ease. The going with ease the non-tooth-pulling aspect of freedom from fear and staying in that bubble. In Tahiti, in ease in Tahiti. In finding, we get happily lost, in oceanic striving, letting go of striving, getting lucky as it all happens away from us, close to us, we seek to sit in a silence that golds us up. And we do. That silence golds us up and we shatter the rain-frame and we run into it, collide with the pervasive sand in our shoes, in our eye-corners, in our happy peopled skin, brown in the sun and sharing it all without wanting or waiting, just sitting in the gold of silence, the hat of the world. _______________________________________________________________________________________________edit______________________________________________________________________ What is the pantry and what the relic, what the groundsman and what the fuse, what the fidgeter and what the quay? The pants, sheets, and the queasy feeling and the trying after glory and dancing, and the apartments and the staying and the leaving. The it, the identification of it, the shine and sadness and lightning and stability of children and stomach. And seeing the them, the endless them, the fleeing and returning and going and simple happiness of making words and going with ease. The non-tooth-pulling aspect of freedom from fear and staying in that bubble. In Tahiti, in ease in Tahiti. In finding, we get happily lost, in oceanic striving, letting go and getting lucky as it all happens away from us, close. We seek to sit in a silence that golds us up. And we do. That silence golds us and we shatter the rain-frame and run through it, collide with the pervasive sand in our shoes, our eye-corners, our happy peopled skin, brown in the sun. Sharing it all without wanting or waiting, just sitting in the gold of silence, the hat of the world.

Here

Here’s what you remember: You remember the rain, and going into the rain. You remember trees giving way to ashes and ashes giving way to hands. And you wished for a galaxy of grey panels, of rain in cloaks, of melted nights blending together on trains, near lakes, in puddles and fields of blackbirds. You gathered in your sheets, moved with the movement of air through a window, placed your hands against cool glass. You preferred everything, in general, and you spoke always about flowers and young mourners and celebrations with fire. In every word you spoke, you heard the echo of water. It began as memory and became a drumming of white petals against a wet roof. Animals forgot themselves and you twisted into their happy movements. The pink angles of Everything made a return and you wore a flower to commemorate Everything.