Today a lady read from a book that she wrote. A man, the picture of collection, cried briefly, quietly, at my elbow. And the sun outside shown bright and warm.
I felt the bursting of life I have not felt in a while -my very seams shining light from within.
I heard that my own voice is more than just drops in a well, behind your parent's farm, where no children play anymore. I am grateful for this fact.
But then the bags beneath my eyes sagged a little more, darkening to bruised colors, the way they do. The edge of the wheel, once high above the earth, then in the mud, soon to carry on.
I find that I have recently become a twitcher -a shaker or bouncer of legs when sitting. Once, in an archaic dictionary, I found the obscure name for this action. The "devil's tattoo." Demons playing marching beats to your constant, rhythmic motions.
Big Dan once told me that he rocked his body back and forth because he had pneumonia for 8 months when he was a child, and his tall bodied father would return home from work and use the same rhythmic motions to soothe Dan to sleep. Why do I move the way I do now?
I felt the bursting of life I have not felt in a while -my very seams shining light from within.
I heard that my own voice is more than just drops in a well, behind your parent's farm, where no children play anymore. I am grateful for this fact.
But then the bags beneath my eyes sagged a little more, darkening to bruised colors, the way they do. The edge of the wheel, once high above the earth, then in the mud, soon to carry on.
I find that I have recently become a twitcher -a shaker or bouncer of legs when sitting. Once, in an archaic dictionary, I found the obscure name for this action. The "devil's tattoo." Demons playing marching beats to your constant, rhythmic motions.
Big Dan once told me that he rocked his body back and forth because he had pneumonia for 8 months when he was a child, and his tall bodied father would return home from work and use the same rhythmic motions to soothe Dan to sleep. Why do I move the way I do now?
Today we voted. Some cry out in anguish, others in optimism. Some bury their faces, and others lift their eyes up to the light. We project our pictures of God and Satan on human beings so easily. We seem to forget who is in control. We seem to forget who can or cannot save us, body or soul.
For me: I see people fighting in the streets and forests of other countries. Will we be spared from such a fate, such cave dwelling? Here, on our own city blocks, in some future's distant mist?
I wait for my love, my future wife, the one whom will radically change my life.
But I also can see myself dying young, tomorrow, or the next, in a traffic accident, a stray bullet through my apartment's window, an air conditioning unit falling from a window stories above.
No matter the date of my demise, either near or far, before you lower me into the eath, have them carve on the lid of my pine board box:
"How great is the Creator? Who knows what shape I may take, or where I will go, or what I may see there?"
Bury my body beneath a tree that will grow large, so that in time it may lower its roots and cradle me in its loving arms. Me? I will be somewhere else entirely. For, "I have no soul. I am a soul. I merely have a body."
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