What words come? The path. The plunder. The kelly green. The sirens singing in the living room. The careful chords, their glowing beauty, the radiant voices, the shadows in the window, the trees and the bricks, canvas-the medium and the fabric. Palette, colors. Women in the living room.
Today, what keeps me breathing? What makes me try harder still? Chris’ album, its furious passion, the blueberries, the thought of making love tonight, the toasted, fresh bread, the coffee bean smokey-gound leather sip of hot, the prayer that is cooking, and that there’s running water somehow while some women in some countries have no doctors with whom to deliver their children, alone curtainless. That there are guitar strings and wood and the old shelves I found from an abandoned shoe factory I will save and hang on our walls, the boy on the bus speaking Spanish softly, another thought of breasts and wine and basil leaves, green-veined, glowing, my father’s voice on the phone, a letter from a friend in Spain, that there is ink with which to record, with which to yearn to say something, to add a notch to the stick, and paper from trees, the sources of things, copper pipes into the mud and shit and rust and into a glass, nourish, through all the shit, that there was sunlight and poetry shining through the leaves’ checkering glow, angel-edged amber and silver and gold, that my legs had the strength to carry me to lunch for a few minutes more of nourishment, repose, sushi at the shitty sushi shop on the corner, that there are voices in the street and sawdust in the hallways, and summer-dressed legs at the subway stops, and garlic and olive oil and basil and spaghetti and warm bread.
I pull from my own soul
the shape of my tomorrows.
Fly. Fly. Fly.
To capture the heart of the place.
That there was bergamot, the blend of bergamot with black tea, smooth velvet black like calligraphy pens’ ink, that these entries lend a small beacon of hope towards which I bend my energy and longing, crave words not smoke on hot days. Remember feeling gross in the heat, smoking. Needing to smoke anyway, sweating, heavily, guiltily. After lunch, sweat on your brow in the street walking, Brooklyn ablaze, burning my lungs, needing the burn, nauseous with heat and hot smoke, needing anyway all of it.
To capture the heart of the place. To be with myself. Painful, slow moments, working through the habit’s passage, now, maybe the habit not wanting to let me go. I’m letting go. To capture the heart of the place. To be with myself, here, blissful slow moments. Strip away what others make of me. In time, after time, out of time.