I thought she was my lover
She was more she was less
A carver of men
A lion untamer
She’s an agent of God
Or some force beyond me
Sent to help me become
Or destroy me if I don’t
I’m not her lover
I’m her assignment
Her lover looks on
With sad professionalism
He’s in her league
With an assignment of his own
Friends and lovers
They come disguised
To smelt, uplift ,challenge, strengthen, meld
It feels real even after you see it
But the granule
Becomes a beautiful farce pearl
And I wish, I beg for a more obvious whip
Not one disguised to infiltrate my heart
A honey pot
God’s honey pot
Pretend it’s real
Forget that it isn’t
Just beg for someone with a hat
And tailcoats and a stool
To say be more mindful crack
Don’t be soft, crack
Speak your mind, crack
Follow through, be on time, listen to yourself
Not this, not infiltration
It sets me back, makes me spiteful
“I won’t listen to you God
You’ve sent me a spy”
because I wanted a lover
And all there was
Was an assignment
And a deadline
I thought she was my lover
Bermuda. She remembered there. Antigua. That’s where she met Rob. It was a long time since she spoke to him. “He’s still down there”, she breathed onto the window, ‘I bet”. Back when she began it was easy to know who came up but nowadays after Migrant bought the shuttles people were arriving innumerably. It seemed. Even Patrick was a newcomer and he was only 15. When the program started you had to be 25 to even take the test. Now you only needed enough money.
The fog faded from the glass. It pulled opposite of the planet’s rotation and opened a curtain on Africa. She saw many places she never visited. Found it funny living up there when she barely conquered her old neighborhood and a couple West Indian isles. Funny. It was getting too loud, too noisy. Not just the sounds. It was the feeling in the air. Everybody was saying something without talking and much of it was worthless. And there so was much of everybody. She missed a time she didn’t know, wasn’t even sure existed. Her books and imagination taught her scenes of worthy silence and entire stories told in glances. None of that existed there and if it did here it diminished too quickly for her to notice. Still it was better, charmed by the leap rather the landing. She kept telling herself it was better.
“Watcha looking at?”. The question coming from a hunched lank of a boy. He walked up to her and her window as if she weren’t there, looking over her shoulder at the Earth. ‘Oh yea, it’s beautiful.” He whistled the four memorable notes of O’Susana. “It’s always beautiful. By the time we stop finding it beautiful we’ll be back on it looking up.” He laughed at his thought. From his entry to his scan of her she never replied or looked away from the window. The earth kept spinning and pulled her thoughts with it. On every dot and crumb was a piece of her mind. Little specks of curiousity, even forgetfulness, but mostly curiosity. As with Patrick she did a lovely job of ignoring this fascination with her former home, partitioning her wonder into an almost scientific corner. She kept it in a separate building from the longing section of her mind.
“Patrick, you’re wonderfully stupid”. She grabbed his right shoulder, Braille directions to the left, and pulled him close. He was under her arm always a little insulted but too enamored to taste it. He tried to look at her face but they were so close he could only see a bit of her chin, nose, and eye. Enough of it. “Why would we ever go back? We should go forward, push deeper. Away from this place until it is just a speck then nothing. Until we’re looking at something else or ourselves, just anything but that, back.” Back, though she tried to enlighten to the final tone of her sentence, back, it came out more pleadingly than she wanted. It threw her back into herself, embarrassed to realize she was using this kid as a receptacle again. A basket for incomplete thoughts, and wisdom and foolishness. He kept emptying it hoping one day his rummaging would uncover affection. But today, more incomplete; with a spray layer of guilt. He put his arm around her waist, genuine for one of the few times in their relationship. Some other time in life he’d carry out these genuine movements more naturally and to greater effect with women who cared.
Eyeing the top of his head she didn’t feel any of his rehearsed and jesterly flirtations. He was elsewhere like her. “I’m finally busted”, she thought. Not worried, but she acknowledged the slow decline in his mystical admiration. If it’s happening, this is where it began. This arm, a wreath of pity. “You’ll be a good one Pat, you know and act on it before you even know, and it’s good.” Patrick sighed through his nose. There was suddenly baritone and weariness in his exhalation.
The huge halo of a station spun its last lap of the day lit earth. Shadows were stretching out the nooks of uneven tiles. Tiles who poked about stupidly and asked if it were their turn to cast. It all looked dumb. It was an experiment in being rather than the necessity of leaving. The station began as research into the psyches of the first space communities. The study was so new and unobserved that scientists kicked their feet upon a table of science and spiritual questions alike. There wasn’t a measure of supernatural expectation but the anthropological question marks were so fresh and numerous no devout specialist didn’t have a bit of room for them. But Christians remained Christians, and the non-believers non-believed. Muslims faced west though the stratospheric separation added another dimension to their calculations. The only thing observable amongst the masses was the early obsession and fear of damaging the hull or any part of the vessel. Children were spanked for missing their catches or playing catch in the first place. A man was tackled for peeing in a corner. A bigger fight broke out over a smaller fight that banged about a room. It was a mess, but humorous in relation to the danger it caused, which was none. After this measure of panic, things were normal. Earthlings in space, all their habits dug from the roots and foundations brought along. No need to pack or unpack.
“Why does my shirt feel this way?” a whisper noted amidst her inattention. In second they almost forgot each other. But then there was his hair raking over a piece of her arm and her confusion over this unfamiliar feeling. “Hey Patrick, when are you going to get yourself a girlfriend. You can’t flirt with me forever you know. Soon I’ll be taking care of a real baby, not just a big one.” She smooshed his hair sisterly. Her movement was genuine this time. She was ready to let go. Before she had this child she vowed to be honest. With her guilt firmly projected onto Patrick’s movements, she felt more reaffirmed to do this. She liked this kid, but he was a kid and most of his charm lied in his stupidity. But fortunately most of his stupidity lied in his age. She knew he would grow into something esteemed in spirit and action and maybe even in title. But for now, probably a very small amount of now, he was still a kid who knew more how to act in love than be in love.
The favors he had done her were mostly calculated. More calculated than his infatuation or her loneliness would admit. Than this space ship would allow. Love aboard this thing was a commodity. Decent imitations held as much value as the real thing elsewhere. Their friendship, genuine, kept the whole thing from bowing to farce. “Maybe if we grew up together”.
“Huh?” he remarked lessening the pressure of her hold.
“Maybe if we grew up together, at the same time and the same age, I wouldn’t had treated you so silly”. The old her still had a grip. She wanted to speak of love and not of silliness. She wanted to be mature and acknowledge its possibility in some other dimension or existence without feeling blushy or feeling as if she was leading on. She wanted to speak plainly, but wasn’t completely ready yet. Still, this was more plain than usual.
Patrick, too smart for his age and only outsmarted by her years, felt what she meant. He gave her a knowing rub on her side, brushing her bump. A sound left his mouth but stopped. She looked at him sideways, waiting. He breathed out delicately looking at the air in front of his lips.
“Where are you gonna have it? I heard they’ve improved the birthing chambers.” A black eyelid closed over the last bits of hemisphere, guiding her to meditatively do likewise. Three hands held her belly and she thought and rubbed. He watched her face and her hands, his smile opening like a sunrise. She was beautiful and he knew it. Sometimes he played and cut his affection into acts but he thought he loved her. He spent too many ways dressing it up in jokes to be taken seriously though. and there was his age.
“Fuck the birthing chambers”, her quiet exclamation caused his hand and arm to hover goofily and obedient around her waist, then he rested his arm again.
“Why do you say that, it’s pretty expensive to go back down you know.”
Patrick’s words seemed to fall before they entered her ears.
“I get it though” he tried to pick up her stride.
“I’m glad to be up here, almost too glad, but I’m also happy my mother had me down on earth. It’s an interesting place, smells interesting, dirt and soil and cut grass, they haven’t got that part right up here. I don’t even know why they’re trying. People trying to keep earth so bad they should’ve stayed there. We could use that technology for something else. For birthing chambers that don’t make Andrea furious.”
Her eyes thinned at Patrick and she smiled. She rested her chin on his head and stared at the gold freckled ball outside. “It’s not just that, it’s the earth too” she began with her chin still in his head. He enjoyed the syllabic massage. But she lifted her head and rested her arms on his head and made a fleshy swami’s hat and rested again. “Earth isn’t earth anymore. I don’t think I could give him anything special down there. Nothing that would hold him in place, freeze him if he were figuring out to stay or go. There’s more buildings than trees. You can’t just sit and awe at something, something new. You’re staring at buildings and buildings like the one you’re sitting in. If you ask me, now it’s just people down there and people up here. But when you’re down there, you’re still kind of wanting to be up here, because it’s still new, or something. People are still curious how living up here feels, except they don’t change the way they’re living. It’s really weird, like we didn’t change or grow or something, our existence just got fatter and took up more space.”
Patrick’s nerves became lightly clumsy, he wasn’t used to relating to her this way, without the pretend shooing and stage-worthy laughter and pretend ire. She was wearily upset and lost in trying to figure something out and all he wanted to say something useful
“Hmm”, was what he managed.
“You see.” She continued anyway. She blew up her face; cheeks inflated and eyes wide open and her stomach long ready before this play began. “Everything just got bigger, but the inside is still hollow,.”
“Whoa”, Patrick latched onto something.
“Whoa indeed, I don’t care for this either. But at least when he looks out the window he’ll see something new, something not destroyed, something natural. Natural emptiness.” Her laughter came sudden and hysteric but disappeared quickly, recognizing its nakedness. “Taking the bad over the worse.” They leaned in opposite directions on pieces of the hull, her a pipe, him a jutting of (the) wall. Briefly looking into each other for more words, then not finding it. The stillness spoke in their places. It answered in reedy generator hums, crescending whirs and stern knocks. Natural city silence, car tires breathing over concrete, heels on an empty street in the late evening, sirens, replaced by the sounds of the ship’s digestion.
“You’re fed up with everything, hope you’re not fed up with me” reverting to a defensive jovialness. “Are you gonna lead the expedition into deep space on pure sadness?”
The comment sucked the air out of the hall. There was a hatch behind Pat’s mouth and on the other side, truth. A piece of jest transformed into a revelation before anyone knew it. “Sad? I’m not sad” she looked at him chastising. A calculating wickedness crept into her smile like lightning and pulled back into her stormy mind all the same. But he noted it, even if subconsciously and felt himself tip-toeing in his own head.
“If you’re not sad then what are you? You dislike it here, you hate it down there.” He gave grace for a response before he kept on. “If you don’t like it everywhere you must be pretty sad.” Fifteen years of living was straining to hold maybe 20 years of firmness and directness in Patrick’s face and voice, but he managed. The question fanned her sad flame but he kept his will. A sniffle and indecisive inhalation cut through the dimness.
“I am sad.” She tried to respond defiantly but the knots in her snatched it out the air. They wouldn’t allow it. He words ended on a whimper.
“I am sad. I’ve got no one. Everywhere I go, I’ve got no one. I don’t even have a planet anymore. I remember when I could sit on a piece of road and watch a bird fly by and think ‘hey, I wish I could fly’. I’d think of the places I’d fly too. Now I’d sit on the side of the road and wish I could see a bird. What’s not to be sad about. I’m sorry I denied it.” Her voice lifted and almost broke on the hardness of her apology. “People are so busy down there, if someone looks up you can pick them from a crowd, because who has the time to look up? At least we have the leisure of being experiments. We can sit in hallways, and hug each other and not run races with the clock. But this is how we gained our time back. Not even all of it and this is how we gained it back, by paying money to become experiments.” Her ducts breached their threshold as soon as she laughed. Patrick couldn’t really see her but he felt it.
Before her philosophy rippled under the tears Patrick saved the glassiness. “You’ve got me.” She shook her head. He shook his back. “ I know I goof and try to romance you every time I see ya, but all aside, you’re a decent person.” Clenching his jaw, he stopped mid-sentence. “In indecent times. Don’t let the times turn you how they are.”
The ship’s guts never sounded so loud. Then a chuckle, then a chain, then a beam of laughter, unchecked. Fingers and palms tried to corral and capture her guffaws. Whatever surprised her did so that it was too late to do anything but laugh. Patrick only marveled. You could feel him scratching in his eyes. To do or to say. To do or to say. But she charged him, more accurately fell on him, before he could do either. The last few curds of laughter slipped and plopped to the ground and on Patrick’s shoulders and hair.
“Jesus, Andrea, what did I say, so I could say it more often.” He said this with almost a hundred percent seriousness. A tremor of laughter re-emerged. Patrick beamed.
“Patrick, you’ve made it, you’re a man now. Don’t let the times turn me how they are.” A pint of air came mixed with remnants of chortling.
“You’re a genius.” And she cried into his shoulder spurned by hysteria and melancholy.
Patrick’s beaming grin flattened slowly and his eyebrows clawed deep into the top of his nose. His pupil quivered angry and determined. If Patricia met his eye she would see the beginning of a glint that would be pushed deeper into him until the day he expired.
Love in the United States is sweet & goofy…
Love in Britain is oh so tender and in the smallest of touches…
love in France is thick and in gazes not built for the meek…
Love in Brazil is tease and playful and secretly inevitable
Love in Guyana is presumed, stoic & sly
Love in Puerto Rico is childish and held with tender awe
Love in Africa is hidden, felt the strongest when backs are turned
love in China is heated and throbby
Love in Mexico is quiet and people watch it softly pick things up around the room and ask, “What is this”. And they cry smiling.
I imagine love sows itself in every land like grass, and comes to fruition native and unique to the land. Sweet, mushy, crunchy, lovely, sour, hard to eat, thick rinded, plentiful, scarce, high-up, deep in the dirt, everywhere. different, edible.
"Bullshit" the summer cried. It hovered, it was buried in a pile of rocks."Bullshit!’ the summer cried louder, its voice deeper. Frozen then, it hovered. It buried itself in a pile of rocks.
The summer cried and held her head and swung around marvelously. it looked in the mirror with well welled eyes. It broke the mirror reflecting an ugliness and regret it didn’t want to interpret. Summer was sad. It looked at itself in the back of that reflection. Taunting, smug, floating, summer turned around to nothing, slowly becoming everything.
This distance between it and the pile of rocks began to dminish again. Panicked, summer turned here there left and right. Spun so fast that pieces of it began to fly off. Its pieces retaining life, shock (at this) suppressed and stored for later, they crawled all over. Like indiscriminate leeches of happiness and sunshine and butterflies they crawled vicious smiling creatures. It paused. Thought, One could even see/sense/feel condensation forming in the air.
-What are these?
They appear dangerous.
I touched one and it burned a hole so fierce and self-reliant that I had to ditch that part of my body entirely. It rose slowly, falsely apologetic, splits and chunks grew more on their diet of rocks growing at a rate faster than it satiated crooked smile retreat.
But then, a pinch had struck it and its crafted oppression had flung upwards and in reverse, a whale at the height of its breach, it collapsed and before it could say one obscene word it disappeared.
I look in her eyes unwillingly
the second that comes after another
the birth that I call mine
the perpetual finality of fate
God’s hand versus my will
5 prayers of the devout
The gravity around me stops
Fire forever hot
Water always wet
A woman will always give birth
A lion will always eat flesh
Friendships will cease and germinate
Two dune surrounded oasises stare back
Grass flattened under the weight of many lives
Sneezes propelled from a trillion noses
Stars in eyes of countless generations
of those who’ll never, those who will, and those who do
i see her, find hers with mine
with the involuntary certainty of existence itself
A love that has become air,
unnoticeable and all-encompassing
stink, smelly, fragrant, questionable, necessary
missed with a violent danger
embraced with a silent ferocity
She sees me, I see her
A miracle and oxymoronic ubiquity
this thing of ours
that leads my eyes by the scent of my soul
I know what the big bang feels like. Violence, pretty violence, ugly results, pretty results. Growth from nothing. The realization and reminder that I, this whole thing, came from nothing or something close to nothing. My sperm-self didn’t exist from my father’s inception or his father’s. not in them at least. Pieces of grass, and sinew, and star dust. what the fuck. I know what the Big Bang feels like. Collisions, of people, personalities, all these withouts and paradigms that come together to be immediately repelled and disgusted from each other. or come together to stay and create something inclusively harmonious or exclusively harmonious and dangerous to everything else. laugh out loud, you know the big bang, all the emotions you’ve ever felt, violent varied and overbearing in number, or singular, placid, easy to turnover in your hand, the ebb and pull and push of the universe, no, existence itself reflected in your bullshit tears and happiness and movies, and experiences exploded outwards into your personality. What planet will you become? Will you even become a planet? Some people are cold and deso, some are once in a lifetime miracles. Some are earth, attractive lovely and inhabitable to many. Some are so far away, some are dented and volcanic, some are inhabitable or good company only under certain circumstances. Some you’ll never come close to understanding. We understand the BIG bang. we are the big bang. beyond the conscious, desire to understand, this isn’t about choice, this lies deep beneath that thing like a dimension imperceptible to any mind, eye, or instrument. This a cycle that remains so obvious it’s hidden. The reflection of bang big, the collision creation of things ugly pretty rare voluminous. the gradients of things that appear forever far then suddenly are then we even die. From babe to death, from bang to birth to collision, molding, embedding, molten planets of thoughts, which will hold fruit? which a rock of nutrition and wisdom? We all know what the BIG BANG is. We don’t even need to acknowledge it, it has no pride, but for us…it’s something we should hold dear to finally be able to stand outside ourselves and recognize the cycle. So easy to ignore. Take you finger and swirl around the air and say ” I see you Big fella”.
There’s no time or feeling more extraordinary as when I’m being honest. And when I say being I mean being. Not just the verbal and vocal attachment of honesty. But existing in an honest way. You feel every leaf shudder and whisper in the breeze. Every caterpillar holds and gives some meaning to the honest man. “I hate you caterpillar”. “This caterpillar makes me wanna weep”. “Why do you exist caterpillar?”
It isn’t all butterflies and sprinkles. Contempt can be a beautiful thing out of an honest man’s heart and so can its rejection by another. It’s just that honest things flow with an ease, if not an ease, a naturalism that restores us in the life flow of existence and maybe even God. I have a vague memory of someone telling me or reading about the illusion of wrong or right. How the definition changes from person to culture to country and border. I think it’s bullshit, you can’t kill a man for no reason. Though like I said a culture is entirely capable of producing a citizen who doesn’t understand your wrong as his wrong.
In this person’s paradigm whether it’s the extreme of acceptable murder or which hand is blasphemous to shake, what always give me a lovely chill is the pure and honest and fully self-believing execution of these movements. No ulteriors or nuffin’. Whether I agree with it or not, watching someone be honest and being honest is the greatest thing on earth and possibly beyond.
Three women on the 5, speaking a language I don’t know. They’re young, white, hip, in good spirits and talkative. They might’ve been talking all through my sleep. even about how handsome the young dirty looking napper is. *Foreign language* If he was clean I might bring him home to my mother * I think i like him dirty’, says the other. Of course this isn’t what I want them to have said and especially isn’t what I think; I’m talking shit. But probably, despite their prettiness I’m not sure how easy I am, their language sounded beautiful and meant for play and lightness. Maybe because of their good mood. Or maybe that’s how it is. A language that didn’t lend itself well to anger and general negativity. Funny. A language of peace, of good times. An actual language. Not phrases and -isms. an actual language. Funny Funny Funny.
My mother said I was stolen from her. I must have stockholm’s. why would someone wait until someone was gone to be their sweetest, I don’t know. To ensure that person will come back? Because while I was around it was easy to assume I’d always be around so there’d be time to be sweet later? Whatever, I wasn’t stolen, i was requested. and i accepted. Not even the universe can have its cake sometimes. One thing opens up, another closes. fuck it.
Post-script July 20th, 2014
Nah, she just misses me and is scared I’ll abandon her. It’s peculiar, I have to show her I won’t leave her hanging, in a way to win her nagging back. Life’s forever funny.
What’s the greatest lessons I’ve learned in the last month. Fuck if I know. Maybe to give less of a fuck. I get these feelings in my gut and then people put these words and perfectly logical sounding things in my mind and ears and I begrudgingly, my soul begrudgingly ignores itself and follow these logical sounding things. Then you know what happens. Disappointment, lol, most of the time. Not all but most. Por Ejemplo:
My gut goes ; Man I should go this show,bar,do this assignment before or after boom boom boom
Someone/Something else/even my own brain goes ; Man that’s stupid.
My brain goes ; yea, you know what, you’re right, that’s some good old cold hard logic.
My spirit goes ; *facepalm* in the corner of the room.
I go ; What?
My spirit goes ; Nothing man, just go.
I’m like ; No, What?
My spirit ; *clams up*
I ride the train or stay where I’m staying, doing the opposite of what my gut said to do. My soul, my whole shit feels uneasy, but I tell myself “that’s just your body rebelling against making sense” lol.
But you know what? disappointment. I get to the place/thing. I get a call or text. And the thing is canceled or pushed way the fuck back or was the day before or the person didn’t even care or obviously wished that I showed up later because they were still doing their thing. And I’m standing there sad and lonesome ‘cause my gut-soul-chakra is at home crying in a corner like a wife who’s been left home alone again for another night of selfish wandering. It’s fucked up.
If I could have a polygamist marriage. It would be between me, my gut, and Alizabeth.
Less of a fuck in more of the right ways.