You, Me, Matter, Etc.

Let’s take back these elements that ground us. That roll us. What can we do when we try? If we are the ones who speak, let’s commandeer our voices. We have these arms, these precious arms. And the sky along with them. What kind of grey can I pull from the sky here, to get to the wobbly skeleton, or to its glitzy smile? I am here, in any city, weirding out these monks from the ground, these monks that shave my thoughts and see whatever I won’t let them. They are all me and they trod a slow path through my thoughts, composed while I rage. What life made these dudes, who capture my imagination alongside whatever else they are up to? I grasp and shiver, they see what I can’t, and slow down to break the rhythm. All day like this, which is good when you are the plant that I am. That means I am a plant for everyone, to help breathe and give a little green. Cue guitar smashing…feel better about whatever happens. Scrape me to find your way to some of my zest, made of blood and thought. Although not even in the night did I let you know that you made my mouth taste sweet. An energy, you bloomed alongside that purple road, toes and flowers all curled and dreaming, tiny loops of vulnerability and not much else. Here is me trying to crack the poetic. Here is me still waiting. Waiting again. It means we are over-roasted versions of ourselves, humming as the world drives us back. In waves, grab and slip the sea a quick kiss, a shine on the lip, a little flick of a wrist over a guitar, so soft you thought it would make no sound. But sound it did, echoing into the morning like it chased you, even on your errands and during meals, a little procession of listening tones. They go into your ear, those waves they do, to listen to you, as you listen. That’s how you know they wait for something, because you remain still and they keep moving around you, a curious mob, those dulcet tones. That could be the end of something. Or just the middle made strange. It feels as if I am affecting some stance here, some galactic innocence to stand by and feel less than cold in the drumming void of night. But it’s not void if you are there, or even if it’s only my memory of you. Then I have memory, at least, and those monks that came before, with their placid contemplative faces, they shadow along like a pack of hounds, using my thought as a path, even as they are me, and I am the monks who listen, the monks who watch. It’s like the song says: “All The Falls Are Down.” And the song could go forever and I would still cry at the sad points. The self is that shoe you can’t throw out, even though you lost its counterpart during the last move. You know it belongs to something, so you can’t bring yourself to toss it, even though it’s useless. Because you remember too dearly its usefulness, from how long ago? That’s not survival. That’s just refusing to leave the bric-a-brac shop. It matters that we are in a world of matter, but we don’t have to gather it all up around us.