The light bulb blooms. The petals of light, the tungsten burning red and hot- invites, sings, thinks only of the memory of wings. The burning, the bodies and their count, the trivial data, the remains of feeble lives pile up only to be blown away by the night wind. Far way, the plastic chairs rustle like grass, as everyone leaves with their lips stained and bleeding with illusions. In the silence of the backyard, I alone hear the wings drop like rain. I look at my own charred and mauled self and ridiculously, think of love, only of love. I realize something is truly wrong with this world that I’m caught in.
A summer comes alive, a branch flowers at the touch of my hand. My hands that were just held by you they find all dead things, all dark corners of life. There is so much of life in these hands that are now desired by you. There is so much that can now be brought back to life, so much that can stop hurting. There is no way to stop all this warmth from spilling out of me anyway. This world, this path of ruins, this history of us, existed for this moment maybe so that we may learn the texture of hope in each other’s skin, so that we may see the rebirth of light in each other’s eyes.
the towers are open to the public now. the crowd can now crow and row and climb to the better views- a softer light, a smaller distant world, the illusions of gods growing on our own earthly skin. this radiance was supposed to mean something else, something more, something new though. but these deafening footsteps, this meaningless chatter, these houses now growing like shrooms, the clothes now drying on every step, the resurgence of life and the blooming bruise, the grass growing, the herds living and dying in the shade of the tower- they only make me cry. even in their most wretched moments they still remain things i can’t have. the singular monument of hope and its playground of chaos and me, the only child who doesn’t belong, looks up at the promised sky, feeling a new hollowness creeping. feeling myself break for the same old things in new ways.
The metal bubbles. The knives and the rust reach our softest tissue, our dearest happiness. My skin, like his, is torn and sewed up. A new design forced into our veins. A new love written. Something old and precious bleeds. Something soft leaves our hold, leaves our hands, our dreams cold. The blessings, the gentle shade, the sun showers – all a memory too unreal to be trusted now. Soon we will speak of love and not mean each other.
There was once something similar to a heart trapped under his breathing flesh. You remember that stage of wood – the house of stories in skin, that used to be hidden away at the end of a road so narrow that one could reach its door on knees. His heart was that place before it found a new real way to sing of ends. Do you remember the night of immense light three years ago- the night of mad faith, the burning of glazed wood, the men who could only speak of hauntings, of the cold breeze that lived under their skin as they sought truth and reality by burning the rest away. He still repeats those words in his sleep, those songs that are not really his, the songs that should have never been put to words. Forgive him or better ignore him, for he is not entirely here. A part of him is still burning somewhere. A part of him is still trying to survive the death of his world.
The fork in my hand scratches furiously at the new sheen of the borrowed plate. The dense death and the calcium of my hand tries to make a dent in my green vessels, my skin too persistent to break away, to let anyone else win. My teeth runs away from cheap meat- the soft fish, the bird drained of blood lie wasted in the mouth of people as they kiss and cave into equally hungry lying mouths. My teeth digs in, tears into that one loveless heart, trying to find some hunger for myself, a hollow to store my excess, my too much, the insufferable and the glittering overflow, the by-product of life that doesn’t want to be lived. All this destruction, does something to me I feel there is revelation, some hidden logic these marks and sounds are leading me to, so I flow along. waiting for the moment when the desperate whimpers give away to something else, something beautiful, something that will make me finally cry that will hurt me in the most irreversible way something that will make me a human capable of losing and loving anyway. Maybe ‘the end’ is just a scary sign, beyond which the life I wanted to live begins, a place without illusions and truths. A point of just easy breathing.”
There is mercy in shadows, there is healing in light, and in the darkness? There is always something in darkness but we never know what. Only there I can invent, imagine and pretend. Pretend that this is my heart, these are my people, these noises that scare me are of ghosts, here I can see their teary eyes Pretend that the one coming towards me is a kind monster, that the bleeding has stopped that outside is spring, is a life better and wider than this Outside is always spring till I don’t open the windows, till I don’t look out. What a sad fragile relief this darkness is. A never-ending cycle of hope and pain.
I looked at the beautiful beautiful plate, the rice lit like pieces of paradise, the spice, the salt, a garden, a farm, a forest fit into morsels. I wanted to write about food and realized how it no longer fills me but what feeds me are the hands that make them. Carefully they serve the empty cold plate, fill it with love and color and texture and sprinkle “i love you” and “hope you are always happy” and “hope you are always full” without restrain, always, always in excess. But I am never full, and I am often not happy. I eat this world and their love always with half my heart heavy with ugly yearning for things that cannot be. But whatever good remains of my heart remains because they love, they care for me like this, without reconsideration, without restrain, always, always in excess.
The stones are stacked, a song is sung. The invisible hands and wailing throats are at work again.
The yard grows sand, grows salt and sun and water is what it waits for. Colorless blue is all that eludes the grand plan. And the wait for it is a snake –
a snake crawling through the alleys of heart, upturning graves and homes, looking into the eyeless sockets on walls, waiting for some light to illuminate something true here.
Wait is the girl who pukes at the mention of hope, and walks off the cold by lighting her own legs. Her feet that always survive miraculously, dance on the grassless yards yearning for blue.
The yard grows feet grows heart and fun. The yard is lit with the light of fried birds – this is the liveliest moment that all hands here know. What else can one do with life? What else can one do with death?