objects in a room-item 1

i have a sympathetic cursor.  sweet little thing.  holds it's tiny blinking breath when i do.  exhales brightly once i enter with a word.  an optimist, the cursor simply soldiers on with my sometimes prosaic prose.  "the dog did not wash", i type.  and it blinks in delight, "what then?  what then?" as if i had something very profound to follow with.

there is an angel on my window sill.  (cursor: "yes! yes! and what of that angel?").  and she is covered in light dust (or perhaps a dust of light) and she stands above my head.  the day has bloomed and progress is underway.  i hear cars tearing up and down the road and the clamor of hard living beating against pavement.  there are metal birds in the sky.  i'm still under blankets thick with the scent of french pressed coffee, ink stains on my fingers from when i was born scrawling out illegible lines for the sake of speech and release.  i grab hold of the angel and take her from the sill.  i must open a window, extract myself slowly from the womb of solitude let the air of the outside world brush against my wool sweater and matted hair.  i slide open the window with one hand, the other hand is holding the angel.  i would hate to have knocked her down accidentally.  sometimes angels fall when you open yourself to the world.  the breeze is gentle, the touch light.  bits of sound squeeze through the mesh frame, just enough to keep me connected, just enough so i'm still free.  i put the angel back on the window sill.  she holds a bright feather and smiles down at me, her wings fluttering in the new air.

what will become of...?

yes, that is the question.  and what about...?  precisely.  each action is so complicated isn't it?  the implications of everyday life.  would you speak plainly.  sometimes i fear i most certainly cannot. 

reflection moon

i am overwhelmed by the selves i was
by the selves i will be
and am
presently.
selves folding out of the sea
like unicorns
silver
and untouchable to the mundane
sacred selves.
 
moonlight's grip
cracks me open like an egg
like a magical, mystical
geode
revealing all the shiny bits of soul
to the icy, clean morning air.

what if i craved my life
as if i were connected to everything?
what if i let loose such a cataclysmic compassion?
could i then look to the moon
and understand why i am crying?

narwhals and birches

soon it'll all be gone and i'll be sitting in this chair rubbing my knees wondering where it went.  that's how it goes, the months, the years, the times you thought, for better or worse, would last forever.  soon i'll be an old maid and the image won't be nearly as frightening as it first appeared to me in my twenties.  i'll sit back and take in the birches with a steaming cup of coffee.  some things never change.  coffee and me and the birch trees that is. 

i try to remind myself that this moment will be like no other ever again.  it is unique, unimaginable, surreal even in its transitory nature.  but isn't it easy to get caught up in the living, get caught up in trying to delineate a particular place for each experience, each memory?  i am tired.  and i want to sleep.  but i'll be missing the unique moments that were set before me like gods on Disney holiday.  who would want to miss that?

i sip my coffee and let my mind tilt toward the birches.  feel the bark under my hot hands and savor what i think will be a beautiful future.

i'm on an adventure.  going someplace new.  i hope to unearth myself.  and in this hope i've discovered little pricks of self doubt and destructive constructions surfacing like long forgotten narwhals, narwhals that pierce skin and expose inside secrets. 

there must be something done with the deleterious parts of oneself.  i rack my mind trying to understand why i behave in the ways that i do.  laid on a bed and talked to a shrink.  she doesn't have a degree but she is my friend and perhaps that makes her better qualified.  what is this talk of narwhals and birches?

i am walking through the forest.  the birch trees have lost their leaves.  there is snow on the ground but i'm warm, wearing nothing more than an oversized t-shirt.  pegged into the trees like gigantic darts are narwhals.  one waves a flipper at me and smiles.  her smile reminds me those destructive parts of self will always remain.  sometimes hidden, sometimes crashing through the ocean of me, but always, always living.  and so i'm led to the next question, what do i do with these thoughts of narwhals and birches?  what do i do with me?