mortal words

i’ve decided that i don’t want to write, not with my hands anyway.

i want to think words onto paper and screens and leaves and stones and skies. i want words to fall onto the sand and clay soil, carved into ice and cave walls.

i want words to appear on my skin, spinning stories of a life lived and yet to be.

i don’t want pen and ink. no, that is not enough.

i want the words to manifest, conjured from my soul and eager to find themselves atop anything that is not immortal. so they can one day fade, fade, fade, then join the ancestors.

i want my words to live for a million years then without warning meld into the akashic records that house everything we have ever known and ever will. yes, even the words must leave here.

mortal words seeking immortality.

so don’t ask me to write with my hands. it is not enough. it will never be enough.

 

i am the stream…

i am the stream…

of consciousness.

it is 2:38pm, monday, the In The Beginning day of the week

august 14. twenty seventeen, whatever that means

it is the day when i want to forget the days and seconds and step into infinity,

the un-time

when will my day come. this is not a question. not anymore. when will i be the well versed and well fed writer who need only spill ink onto the page and the letters and words figure skate to my thoughts, shaving ice into paragraphs

i stream across the un-pulp, the bits and bytes that give life back to the trees, so that i can write guilt free. still, i am guilty. the words have not yet transformed nations, creating a quasi peace, something i could leave to my children’s children

my words don’t bleed for them, not yet. my words don’t bleed, so they will never need to bleed, and sweat and cry for what could have been

i bleed for the horizon i have yet to reach, for the words that need to be found to conjure beauty and caste a spell upon our heart so it will grow eyes and wings, to see each other in the mirror, to fly into infinity

i seek the un-time, the edge of tomorrow

there is where we will find a wasteland of mondays, their bones almost dust

leaving only the un-time, on a mound made for our children to cast prayers to the un-gods

save words

i will save words for you. bottled and pickled words for you.

then feed you synonyms of me, so you will always remember my taste.

i will flavor your life until all your tongue remembers is what it is was like to come…to come…to come

…into my dreams.

and stay a while. a long while. until you are…

…exhausted from eating synonyms that uncover every inch of me.

 

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