If Only I...

It’s funny how sincerity is not always a good thing. You think being honest is what it’s all about, but it must have to do with the people you meet. You hear that all the time, being honest, being sincere, because it’s the right thing to do, but you meet the wrong people to be honest and sincere to. I’m no stranger to irony.

I would tell them, let them know the truth, everything about me, because you think it’s the right thing to do, the right way to start it all, but the world is a funny place. I’m here to let you know about all the realness I have inside me. The last thing you should be is ashamed, you tell yourself, but you end up feeling that way anyway, at least sometimes. I laugh about it because it’s the only way I can get past it. To think all that honesty and sincerity would come back to bite me. It’s like your heart is talking to you, telling you there is no other way to be. Is my heart wrong, I think? Is my soul lying to me?

I put her up on this little white cloud, held her beauty there like the sun, wondered all the time if she was just that beautiful inside. I think I said that to someone once. It’s part of the mission, I guess. Part of the quest, the one thing to get you past all the rest, that everything I thought and felt was real, genuine through and through. How could you fail, you think? Everything I wanted to say, knowing it came right from the heart. Some had to do with honor, even. Unbelievable, you think. Old fashioned approaches, authenticity. All dead now. To think none of it was pretend, and that’s what you were trying to convey. All these men are really little boys, and there was a measure you were living up to that said otherwise. You were trying to tell them you were worth more than that, that you were worthy of them, good enough, when really, it was just the opposite, wasn’t it?

I wasn’t just talking to amuse myself, to give you all the things you wanted to hear, to sound like every other guy who just wanted to get what they wanted at your expense. There’s just so much suspicion anymore, it seems. I guess the right person would know better. You wouldn’t have to convince them of that, would you? They would know. That’s the difference between the right ones and the wrong ones. They didn’t believe you anyway, despite what you felt inside. They couldn’t feel what you felt inside. You wondered where this role reversal came from. Little boys and their video games, their lack of responsibility. Women without a shred of sensitivity, colder than a drill sergeant. Something happened along the way and this, today, is the catastrophe. Frightening. I would kill to find a girly-girl, a shred of pink, a bright color, a laugh like a lilt. You can cry at everything. I don’t care. Just cry on me. That’s all I ask.

I was always putting the perfect personality to the pretty face. You can imagine my disappointment. Someone who actually cared about the way I thought and felt, saw the world. Supported my beliefs and ideas, stood beside me, said they wanted to come with me on my pilgrimage, because they believed in me. What was the point otherwise? That’s what made it work. But alas, it was not to be…

I wanted her to know I could listen to everything she had to say, let her be who she was, good and bad and love her for it. Be sensitive, thoughtful to her every need, acceptance, without judgment, protective, honorable, and all that old-fashioned crap people don’t care about these days. Seems the world is in short supply. I was just trying to create a little balance. But some women don’t need men at all. They have all those qualities anyway.

It was your femininity I liked best. Old time movies, your girly nature, soft-batting eyes, you little coquette, coy looks and laughter. Girl through and through. Radiance when you walk through the door. You make the sun blush, a beacon through the cloudy haze. Eyes that smiled, too, charm—virtually villainous. That is how you seized my heart. You taught me more about love than I taught myself. If only I…I thought. If only I….If only…

We’d have these late night conversations, pillow to pillow, every subject covered, every secret revealed, every word like a bridge of conviction, a dawning solidity, confirmation that two identical souls had come together and set the world on fire. We were the dawning, second by second, moment by moment reality. Proof that sometimes things were meant to be. A grand scheme, a design, a compliment that we could be part of something that bold, mysterious, and beautiful. A play, a poem, a sonnet revealed, a song, a Victorian novel, or some damn thing. I wanted you to be my Jane Eyre, my Anne of Green Gables. She deserved someone more dark and mysterious than Gilbert, I thought. I could love her more than him. I built myself from the shrine of ashes, everything like new, but still scarred and somehow that made you like me more. Even boys can have fairy-tale dreams, like you girls do. But some girls turn into men, and let them die. Boys turn into girls and do the same. That’s why some dreams never come true.

I wonder what happened when we both built for ourselves the perfect each other, conquered demons, slaughtered dragons, only to find the tower empty. Created myself for myself and you to be everything I could be, I thought. Unrequited love, and there was never even a lover. Go figure. Just a thought in my head I didn’t want to be the only one to uncover. Words on a page. Bitter irony. Alas, a dragon slain. And for what? To walk the streets alone in wonder with myself as my own company to keep me company. Do you meet the same dead ends I do? Why is it always a destination I’m trying to get to, as opposed to understanding this is enough here now, the way I am? I am missing the moment otherwise. Do you wonder why just being you left you so frightened and alone with no one to talk to but an idea I might be out there? That’s how it is for me here, finding my own solid ground to stand on. But still wondering…If only I…

Fallen Echo

I wonder if there’s something beyond all this. More than words can describe, nothing I can capture here. Colors you can take a bite out of, something sticky and sweet that drips down your chin. I wonder if I can be a constellation someday. Look, there in the sky! It’s me in a constellation now!

I embrace the cold, empty air as if it were a woman, holding tight, my arms wrapped around her, breasts pressed tight against my chest. See me. Touch me. Feel me. Like that song by The Who. Hear me run. There, as I move my head back and forth, a slight lingering aroma of subtle perfume in her hair. Copper curls, maybe. That’s what it was last night. Black. Brown. Platinum. But it’s all pretend.

A different road leads off into deeper solitude, tall trees on each side, blocking the sun. It’s barely a road at all. Pretty little cloudy day anyway. There must be something beyond all this—here, this road never got me anywhere but the same old wandering. Leads me back to where I used to be a hundred years ago.

Just on the edge of my vision, something black flickers, a shadow moves and breathes like a whale. It snuffs out everything. I see redemption and mercy in fire sometimes, enough to put a smile on my face as I soak in tepid water with more than water going down the drain. My face doesn’t blush anymore. Flames are loud enough to consume me on their own. I think about them on the ceiling. Shadows are black enough to hide me. I have no excuse. But I’m still looking. Sometimes, it just gets this way in here.

Everything you ever wanted to be, everything you ever loved decided not to show up one day. I take my walking stick and begin my trek across this land. A pilgrimage, I tell myself. It’s necessary. Almost forty, still trying to be a man. Wish I had wings so I could fly away, a boat that could sail around the moon. There’s more to it than this, hollow prisons shaking the fruit from my tree. I keep telling myself maybe I have some gift I can offer, something I can wrap up, put in a little box, distribute to all my neighbors, family, friends, something everyone can have a piece of. Rejuvenate the world, one piece of cake at a time. I don’t mind suffering for a good cause. Dying’s nothing new. I know what’s going on here, but it’s funny how it still surprises me.

These eyes I see with are not my own. This lonely feeling is alien to me, but it’s been around for a while. I just pretend it isn’t there. This pain I feel isn’t mine, either. I know there’s something to learn from all this, and when I do, I’ll share it with you, so you can avoid all these stupid pitfalls I put myself through.

I want to stand alone on a clear, beautiful day, on top of a mountain, and gaze in silence at the world all around. I just want to see hills and hills and more hills, no city, no people, no anything. Just the earth and the sky and the clouds. Maybe get lost at sea for a day or two with nothing but the sky, the ocean blue, and whatever mammal wants to visit me. Anything to clear my brain, take this cluttered confusion and just iron it out with clear blue water. Nothing but me and the vastness, so I can see the vastness, understand how tiny I really am in all this. But wonder and hope, as beautiful as they are, seem to create nothing but pain.

I let the world fall away on both sides of me. I don’t want this same old conditioning anymore. I want some new skin to wear, someone to lift me up for once and tell me everything’s okay, that everything is perfect just the way it is. That maybe there is this crystal shard, this golden, unbreakable thing inside that cannot be touched, and it is the most beautiful thing in the world, in creation, that has every existed and will ever exist, and it exists in no one but you. Know what I mean?

I miss those sunsets, no matter where they are, behind mountains, lakes, the sea, the world going down, like a slow-blinking eye, stillness, just the sound of my heart beating. Makes me sad in some way that’s beautiful. I know that feeling. Turn it all into a cloudy day. It’s okay with me. There’s no reason it’s there. It just is. I can’t explain it.

My whole life, I dreamed all these big, impossible dreams. That I could be a super-hero and fly around the moon. That I could live like a cartoon character, a vampire, or smash a dragon’s skull with my bare claws. They were good company for a while, but I need something I can feel and taste and touch.

One day, I tell myself…One day…I will be the captain of a beautiful ship, and I will sail light years across the sea. I will war with Vikings, own a planet, a distant star. But I know better. I can’t base my life on tomorrow. How come that ocean isn’t here now? Why can’t it be?

My quest begins with a solid pair of shoes and a good walking stick. I used to cling to all these ideas, images, something to make me happy, and I realize I’m not so lonely anymore despite what my heart tells me. You can only make so many changes in one lifetime. Just who do you expect yourself to be? An invincible, flawless, warrior poet?

I look up into the sky after the sun’s gone down. It is just night and stars, but I don’t see a sign of me, not where I can draw those stars together and make them do what I want. What kind of puffed up ego is that? Self-absorption? Narcissism? No more than a speck, a tiny, easily forgotten thing. Barely makes a mark, a scratch. When it talks, it doesn’t breathe. You can’t hear anything. Even the slightest whisper doesn’t make any wind.

My voice is all the company I have, an echo that fails to return any of my calls.

I Am Night, and I Am Made of Stars

He held his hands out on either side of him and turned his face toward the sun, warm rays upon his face. Above, the sky was a cloudless, winter blue, no breath of wind, but just this cold air, clean and crisp upon his skin. He was not hampered by it. He loved winter.

Beneath his feet lay shards of broken glass, twisted wire, jagged rocks and steel, rubble, like a mountain of broken dreams, hapless beginnings and detours. The light there at his feet was the dark obscurity of confusion. Charred hands and fingers grasped feebly at him, but he ignored them, paid little heed. His attention was turned Heavenward at the great blue dome of the sky.

There was only this, only this and nothing more, fullness encompassing his heart, his mind in synchronicity with all living things. He smiled. He didn’t need the warmth of summer to remind him, he could do this at will. His level of focus was like a bead, dead-on, aimed true.

I am night, and I am made of stars. I am day, and I am made of blue.

His fingertips hummed, his eyes glowed. Even his hair seemed a cascade of crisp clear water, glimmering with light. It seemed to him that he was standing at the crux of the universe, as though every living eye shined through him, saw through him. Time ceased to beat. White and stars and light exploding, an ever enfolding, expanding tapestry of the universe, black silk, almost transparent, with no edge, no crease, no ripple or ruffle. It had no seams, but it had all things in it. It had no beginning and no end, like a giant blanket unfurling with no end to unfurl.

Still this, he thought. Keep it in a little box and hold it in your hand. You can see the way it vibrates, hums with energy. Every living thing is in it, and then another box, and every little thing in that, and so on and so on. Blinding, glorious, bursting radiance and warmth. Triumph, victory, and trumpets. Beethoven would be proud, he thought and smiled. Glory in his sound. Vibrant intensity, but stillness, too, quiet like deep space, not even the sound of your breath. Not a thought, not a single hum. Just this. Not a picture, not even a pin drops to shatter this quietude. Space, fullness, emptiness, darkness, and light.

Here, I see only this, and Light moves through me, and there is only Beauty and Truth. I am a staff on a blank page. Write your music on me. I see myself in the sky with wings. Did you judge me for the tears I cried, worse than I did myself? I laugh about it now because I never felt this strong before. Mountains upon mountains I see. The world is my kingdom. Love breathes into your eyes. Now, do you see? I was born for all this romantic poetry. I thought this was for Gods alone. How blind I’ve been in my simplicity.

Armed to the hilt with my pen, I slay every dragon before me.

The horse’s hooves crushed every skull and broken bone, shattering them to dust as you rode. A playground, a battlefield, tempests waging war on the sea. One dimension, then two, then three. Have you ever seen the likes of this? There’s a diamond in you, too. Here, just brush off a bit of this dust, spit-shine and polish that pretty little sucker, and watch you come to life and shine! They can see you from outer space. Here, you are Everything, needing nothing. Your fullness is complete. You stand alone, healed, happy, free, and whole. You’ve been cured of all your wanting. In that moment, Divine Love reached down and touched your face. Now, you have a revolutionary mind. You found it on your own without reaching forward, reaching out. You went against the grain. You conformed only to yourself, you rebel you, with your arms out on either side of you, eyes closed, seeing Everything, feeling Everything with nothing at all left out. The air streamed through you and touched everything, and now you can be a child forever. How does that feel?

Champions of the Night Sky (A Christmas Musing)

“I’m always warm when you’re around, something I would’ve never imagined, not on a cold day like today. But it’s true. You warm me by the sun.”

Her eyes sparkled in the winter night when she smiled. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were rosy from the cold. Snowflakes fell slow and lazily around them, like tiny discs of white.

“Cliches, though, my dear, have only so much merit in today’s world. Nobody’s original anymore. So, when I tell you, you are warm like the sun, it’s not as though I’m the first person to have said it.”

She scooted closer, their thighs touching. “Can you taste the peppermint in that cocoa?”

“Yes,” he said, taking a sip. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

They were downtown, between the festive, taller buildings of the city, everything decorated in some shape, form or other. Lights, lights, and more lights. They were everywhere, white lights, multi-colored lights, on the trees, along the eaves of buildings, lampposts, and store windows. Giant wreathes and red ribbons hung from streetlights. There was a giant candy cane on every corner.

The man and woman were sitting on a bench. In front of them, a small ice rink was packed with skaters of all ages, couples, the elderly, children and families, teenage boys and girls, most of them slow-going, stumbling awkwardly, loping, looking as though they were running in place without really moving at all. The man and woman laughed as they watched them. It was festive, comical, joyous, and enchanting at the same time.

They sat for a while in silence before she said, “Like the sun, huh?”

He nodded and smiled. “Not very original, is it?”

“Why is that so important to you? To be original?”

“Probably because I want you to know you are something more to me than clichés, than words unspoken, than things I dream about, certain lines from certain poetry, all the things guys try to say to woo the heart of their ladies fair. Some say it for a million different reasons, because they want to win those fair hearts. Some say it for selfish reasons we all know about already. I read in this book about a guy who said, ‘You are the sun and the moon,’ and he thought he was the first person to say it, and the woman replied by rolling her eyes, emasculating him with a huge, ‘Oh, please, I’ve heard it all before.’ So, when a man meets a woman he truly loves, truly likes, from the bottom of his heart, and knows she is special, unlike anything he has ever met before, he wonders what he can do to prove he isn’t a selfish ass with only one thing on his mind, because in today’s world, it seems that’s the first thing a woman thinks when a man confronts her. It’s unfortunate, but it’s true. And who can blame them? He’s trying to tell her he doesn’t want her for one simple reason. That he wants her for the romance, the poetry, the emotional commitment, the beauty, the crying and the pain that comes with it. All of it. That he wants her to know this, that she is more than just a girl, just a woman to him. But that’s what all the guys say, so what happens when a guy actually means it? How can she believe him? He tries to say it differently. Poets get accused of using their words prettily to get what they want. They use their talents to woo the ladies. Musicians are only using their music. Painters, too, and so they don’t really mean it. They’re just using what they’re good at. But what about the man who knows none of that, who only has that one means to express himself? What about the man who is just a man, whose dreams are dead or maybe never had a dream at all except to love someone and be loved? Maybe he realizes he isn’t going to change the world, that he isn’t going to make a difference, or save the planet or even be remotely known or successful in any way at all? Maybe he’s just trying to be real and honest with himself and feel and be unafraid of all and everything. What about the man who is just an honest, good man in his heart and has only his honest, good heart to give? Today, that doesn’t seem like enough. It’s not an excuse. It’s truth. What if he isn’t rich or has a nice home or is well known in any way? Does that make him less a man, less able to love and be loved if he has only found the space in his heart that matters most? It’s like a man just wants to be believed, accepted, appreciated for what he is, a thinking, feeling human being because it is just that and nothing more. He does the best he can, and he is true and noble and honest with himself and everyone he deals with. Because that’s the only thing that’s true. It’s the only thing that matters. In the end, what else is there? But sometimes it seems like you just can’t win or nobody cares about your intentions or what things mean. I am not famous. I am not rich. I do not live in a mansion by the sea. I’m lucky to have a job, a home, and food to eat. And I just know it’s warm. I just know it’s comfortable when you’re around and that I want you to be happy. I know, even when you’re not around, the thought of you is enough. It’s nice to think about. I like just thinking about you. I have this smile on my face without even knowing it. People ask me all the time, ‘Why the hell are you smiling?’ And I say, ‘I didn’t realize I was smiling.’ I just don’t feel cold. Even now. Here. Frozen to the bone as I should be. You know it’s cold. You can see my breath. But not cold at all. And rich. Rich inside because everything is in this moment. Everything that could ever be and ever was is right here and that’s all that matters, all I care about. And you. Making sure you are happy, wanting you to be happy.”

“I have never been happier. It’s the same for us, too, you know? When you want to express something and you just don’t know how. When you want to prove you’re a good woman to the man you love. When you want to prove to him how true, how loving and supportive you will be to him. No matter what, no matter where, with everything. All you can do is feel it. So, you feel it. You let yourself feel it. And it’s the best feeling in the world. There is no feeling like it. There never will be a feeling like it, you know? You just go with it. You embrace it. You dance, you sing, you celebrate this feeling and prove how much you love. Like now. You hold it. You still it. You celebrate it because this is what it’s all about, Charlie Brown.”

He laughed.

“I think it’s neat they have Christmas music playing while they skate, don’t you?” she asked.

He nodded. “I do.”

He loved the sound of the skates on the ice, the laughter and the jeering, raucous shouts from some of the kids. He watched a middle-aged couple with their arms locked together, skating as though not a single person existed, oblivious to everyone else but each other.

“So, you’re not cold, either?”

“No,” she said. “But it is dang good cocoa.”

They giggled.

“I’m trying to turn it into something magical, maybe, something cosmic, like I want it to mean this great, perfect thing where everything gets answered, the questions to life, the miracle, all of it starts to make sense. In a moment like this, in the moments we’ve had, I always want to turn it into something supernatural. Something out of this world. Maybe I ruin it by doing that. You try to capture what it means to you, I guess, in a way you understand. That you just want it to mean something to you, too, the other person. You worry it won’t mean anything to them like it does for you.”

“So, let it mean something,” she said. “And let it be cosmic and magical. And if that’s what it means to you, then let it be that. I’m the one who feels lucky, you know? That you tell me these things, that they do mean that much to you. Do you know what that means to me that it means so much to you?”

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her. “Well said,” he told her. “So yes, it means the world to me. It means everything to me that we can just sit here, not thinking about anything but this, the kids skating, the music playing, that it doesn’t have to make sense or be explained, because it’s night and it’s cold, and the snow is falling, and my head is crisp, clearer than it has ever been, like what the night sky must look like above all these clouds and there isn’t a single break in the sky except for the stars. That’s how I feel lately with you. And my heart is this giant round ball of vibrating white light. I know it’s crazy. But that’s how I’ve always felt with you. And if anyone turned this into a little story, or a little vignette or something, all the guys would throw up over the complete mushiness of it, and maybe some of the girls would, too, because of all the tenderness and stuff just isn’t in these days. The trend is shallow, no meaning, men being weak and women being strong. It’s all reversed again for the wrong reasons with no balance and it’s still creating havoc. The trend is for women to be sword carrying warriors, like what you see in video games and movies, and men…well, I’m not sure what men are supposed to be anymore. I don’t even think men know what they’re supposed to be. Why can’t people just be the honest people they are? I want you to be the beautiful woman you are with the setting we’re in, with all the Christmas lights, the music, the snow, the holiday cheer everywhere, as though your heart were bursting with magic and fortune. As though the Three Spirits—the Past, The Present, and The Future—were striving in everyone, trying to keep Christmas all the year, and not just one day of the year. That’s what it is, and that’s how it will be, and even this moment has a touch of magic, something surreal about it, and I just wanted to say that because that’s the way it is.”

She laughed at his ranting, then was quiet for a time, closing her eyes. She heaved a heavy sigh, smiled wide and looked at him. “You are my champion of the night sky, my warrior prince and poet. You are my happy ending. The world is not made for archetypes, though they are used often, if not always. But I think people think they are supposed to be a certain thing, and that’s when it gets all messed up. I think times are changing, and we are supposed to be more than that, more than what we have all been, all of us, man, woman, child. You make me feel strong and beautiful as the woman I am, no matter what, and it’s just because you are the man you are. Do you realize that? It’s not something you go out of your way to do. It’s just who you are. People are strong because they are weak and tender. This is an age where the heart and soul are put to the test, where the mind is fragile but all powerful, where it is bravest to embrace every vice, fear, and weakness, and that, to me, is the sign of a true champion. That is the hero I want to have save me from the castle, love. Only through vulnerability can you see how invulnerable you really are. You are not afraid of yourself or the world around you. You see everyone as beautiful, as having goodness in them, a warm heart. Everyone is just fine the way they are. Everyone’s point of view is right. There is no right or wrong. We all think and feel the same things. We just do it differently, because we are different, if that makes any sense.”

He smiled and nodded. “Spoken like a true philosopher, my dear.”

She snuggled closer and leaned her head against his arm. “It means a lot that it means so much to you. Does that answer your question?”

“It answers everything.”

“Merry Christmas, love.”

“Merry Christmas, my dear,” he said.

Snowflakes fell like tiny suns, like tiny moons, silver and white in the Christmas lights. Children laughed and played. Bells chimed from nearby. A warm glow spread throughout the city streets and the night sky looked down upon it all and smiled.


Merry Christmas Everyone!

Silence in Prose

He was friends with silence. He understood its glory, like a lullaby, what silence could be. He closed his eyes and breathed silence, the passing quiet of an undisturbed ocean. It seemed impossible sometimes, that so much could fill silence, but silence did not seem like empty space. It could move and change and turn in any direction, lighting the way. Sounds could fill his head, he supposed, if he wanted them to. He could imagine sounds. Scratches from a pen, maybe, or the wind rattling the window, imagined instruments, distant traffic, but even then, silence lived. Silence breathed.

You know only this, he thought. Only this between sounds, between and over and above, and below melody. To the side here. There is silence there. Even the wind makes silence absolute. Birds make silence when they sing. Everyone stops to listen, and that is silence. Church bells, too, along and between rivers and streams, across the town, know nothing but silence.

Sometimes, it just worked that way, and there was nothing but that without trying to make anything, because everything already was. A single moment lapses into eternity. It stretches from the base of one kingdom to another.

Live in every moment. Learn to watch each person breathe. Carry a storm upon your back. Stretch a cloud here and there. Watch a comet fly. Rain. Pour. Cleanse my soul. Make a giant walk the earth. Pass back and forth and into silken sand. Make a holiday out of me. Torture me with your warm embrace. Smother me. Let me get you something to stir your blood. Let us toast this radiance!

I connect and reconnect. I race around the globe a million times or more, never seeing the same thing twice. I like to see if I recognize my footprints anywhere. But so far, no. For once, my heart actually belongs to me. My thoughts are my own. There is no torture, no memory of ridicule. It fades into the background music and turns into silence. A jewel lights my way along the shadows. I turn it into thoughts of Spring. I close my thoughts and run around and play like I did when I was three. I catch a hummingbird by its wing.

A thousand drums take to the sky, echoing a beat across the galaxy. I stop for a while to listen, and then the rocket-ships, too, take flight. I see those rocket-powered jet-packs, lear-jets, space shuttles. Meteor showers, setting suns, like a time lapse, move forwards and backwards any way you want. I hear the heavy steel guitars of loud rock-and-roll music. Wind to blow our troubles away, uplift a skyscraper, push the moon a meter or two so it’s a pendulum swing. Chaos is only a challenge, a barely perceptible beat upon my breast, someone tapping annoyingly to get my attention.

Through it all, a smile spreads from one end of the gloomy day to another. Stillness makes its presence felt, and says loud enough for everyone to hear: “Nothing can faze me.”

Unbroken Blue

He walks upright and stands alone, surveying the hills around from all sides, towns and villages, valleys, country sides, mountain peaks, lakes, rivers, and streams. Ocean views, panoramas of a million sunsets, tropical islands, palm trees, stretches of flawless, golden sand take up his view from every side. There are endless miles of wind-swept sand and desert hills. Thick, dark forests, jungles, fields, meadows—sea, air, and sky stretch on and on until he can see no more. But he can see. He can see everything. There is no limit to his vision. His vision penetrates. It goes into the trees, into the leaves, into the sunlight, the moonbeams. It passes down and through frozen, suffocating, deep black oceans. Structures as well he can see, man made skylines, cityscapes at night, neon lights, noises, people, traffic, resounding, reverberating in waves rising and falling through it all. All things are visible—tall buildings, skyscrapers, pyramids, landmarks, stop signs, barbed-wire, winding, snaky stretches of road, highways, parking lots, traffic meters, bus stops, walkways, and grocery stores.

He stands, and at all points—all junctures and angles—blinding, incandescent light streams through him. Every cell and molecule is illuminated, bursts forth with radiant, warm energy, pillars of white. Spectrums shoot off into every direction imaginable. There is nothing untouched, no shadow. He can see the night and the day at the same time. Dawn and dusk enter his view. Incandescence is infinite.

He holds his hands out on either side of him, and to him, it seems as though he is standing on empty air, in the vast, great center of the universe. He is on the highest mountain peak. He is everything, and everything is around him. There is no stone unturned, no shadow unpenetrated. Water moves through him, lakes, rivers, ocean sand and shore. Waves break and crash under his skin. Stars emanate underneath and on top of him. He is the mirror of a riverbed. He is glass, transparent. The wind, too, is here, hurricanes, typhoons, earthquakes, tornadoes, erupting volcanoes, tidal waves, cyclones. Thunder booms. Lightning rips across the sky. Rain and snow cloud the air. He is ice and fire. The smell of autumn leaves, woodsmoke, marshmallows, cocoa, peppermint, coffee, tea, baked bread, pies, succulent, mouth-watering dinners warm his senses. He is all the changing seasons. The air turns robust, vibrant green, moist, warm again, bright, blue, unbroken. Spring and summer flowers emerge, rosebuds and new leaves. The trill of birds fill the air, bees, and dragonflies. It moves through him, is him, and he creates it, lets it go, surrenders to it at lightning speed. He is the melting snow, the drying rain, the rain again, the wind-swept pile of leaves that gather in corners. He tilts his head upwards, letting the stars, the light of the moon move through him. He sheds tears. These are tears of joy, richness and emptiness because he knows how full and devoid everything is at the same time. His emotions, his heart is tender, easily flexible, pliant, and he opens it wider, further, making the gap impossible to bridge because he is unafraid. This is nothing short of bravery. This is boldness absolute. Every emotion gushes through him, makes an overwhelming, dominating rushing sound. It is the whine, the shrill of a jet engine, only louder. It is a rainbow. It is fissures exploding, supernovas, and the sun detonating to and out of life. It is the gentle, steady rhythm of waves breaking on the shore. It is life and death, beautiful and devastating. It is catastrophe and sadness, tragedy and color. Melody, silence, and clamoring bells. It is annihilation and song, whispers and poetry. It is total destruction and purest joy. It is a resounding, humming, electric balls of blinding yellow white energy. It’s a cosmic symphony, stardust, miracle, magic, and wonder. It is awe.

For a second, he could fly. He sees all this. He has wings and shoots like a bird across the earth, into the atmosphere, deeper, higher, longer. He goes into space, and he can breathe just fine. He questions nothing. He doubts nothing. He believes, knows, soars through radiant creations of all and nothing. Cheering crowds fill his ears, a stadium of fans screaming, wailing, crying, cheering him on, his name, every name he has ever had, all his names, every imaginable living thing from one end of the universe to the other encouraging him, patting him on the back, telling him he should be proud, that nothing could be more beautiful than this, that beauty is defined in this moment as this moment. Everything has purpose, meaning, and meaning and clamoring joy is what he has found. He knows it; they know it, and they are celebrating in the dance. He smiles and waves to each and every one of them. All he has to do is take one step, and yet it’s even easier than that. It’s not complicated. The melody turns back upon itself. Shadows become light. His perception, his mind reaches out, expands and does not break. It’s light, too, and it touches every corner of the globe, the galaxy, other galaxies and continues on. It moves and moves and moves, and yet, seems to stand completely still. He is traveling at light speed, yes, and not moving at all. It is everything else moving by him, though him. He has never seen, let alone, experienced anything like this, yet he knew it was there all along. Light continues to penetrate his being, and moves, emanating outward in every direction and back into him. He is gentle, soft, oceanic breezes. He is peace, tranquility, and the setting sun. He is whisper, soft melody, a rustle here and there. He is the touch of an incandescent lover. He is the moment they met. He is loneliness, loss, and isolation. He is pain, turmoil, and confusion. He is trauma and fear. He is shaken, freezing cold. He is hopeless, death, and despair. But he is the unbroken blue as well. He is lazily drifting white clouds. He is the birds in the trees, children laughing, and playing.

He spreads his arms out wider and tears continue to fall. He smiles suddenly as everything sheds off of him—years past, automatic conditioning, ritual, habit, routine. It is filth, carrion, an old crust, lice, degeneration, and decay. It is mold, mildew, and heavy stone. It is rank, offal, madness, violence, and vibrant hatred. It is broken bone, withered, rancid skin. All this has its purpose, though. He does not condemn any of it. He pockets it, in fact, stores it in a safe and sacred place and makes sure nothing can destroy it. All that old, previous waste and disease still manages to shine like a flawless jewel, he thinks.

It is amazing to be here. He has never felt so fearless, so unafraid. He has never experienced this kind of boldness, confidence, unwavering conviction. It is as if his soul has taken over the throne of his flesh, given him a trophy, first prize, a kingdom, Heaven, and kissed him fully on the lips. There is no trepidation, nervousness. He smiles, anxious to begin, to see what happens next. Could it be this is only the beginning? Amazing.

Spectrums race against time. He decides to challenge it. This ever constant, unflinching universe is no match for him. He cannot fail. He befriends it, listens, molds, and here it is now, responding to his call. He reaches out and they hold hands. All things he can do. All things he has done. There is love everywhere.

See the sun. Tuck the moon up under your arm and take to the sky. Up, up and away! Put on a cape and fly away!

The possibilities were endless.

Become a light year, a season, a fairy-tale bridge. Make everyone a shooting star, a comet across the sky. A golden treasure. I am a katydid. Follow my lead.

He laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the thought and brought himself back to earth. He reached down and pulled a handful of golden sand into his palms, holding it up to his face. He breathed on it as though he had magic breath, and said, “What kind of life do you see?”

Flesh and Bone

Flesh and Bone, featuring In the Dark Kingdom.



http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Flesh-and-Bone/Jessy-Marie-Roberts/e/9781617060014