I park my car at the end of the ragged, gravel road and step out into the thick, warm night. I have come to tell the weather’s green wind how the invisible hand that grasps the deep rotten fruit of the heart will exploit it. The heart is pure when filled with daylight, but at this time of night, I need to shout my words into my veins. Words about how age blasts the roots of the hanging man. but how the meager words of my clay mouth suck at expressing what’s in my head.
The invisible hand that whirls you around and sees in your eyes a splendid light, a flame that licks away the time that leeches the spirit. Blood that flows pure as a mountain spring is the same as the light from the lantern of the moon, full of hope and delightful uncertainty. I know there’s something going on, a sweet flickering green and blue on the silver screen behind the night. Our lives are projected in a cinema of dimensions we can scarcely imagine. We feel time has ticked away heaven, running around and run down as on a wax cylinder. And I am but a dumb motion, slicing the moon in thirds at the spark of my imagination. The dancing of a sheet on a clothesline goes the same. Am I dumb to tell the crooked trees about who is my destroyer?
I sit against the base of an old, gnarled tree. I’m filled with daylight, but you know there’s a deep, dark sea lurking in the back of my mind. It singes the water in the pool of your heart, stirring the same wintry fever that burns your nights away. It’s the same force that drives the flower, the green rose that is my love for the world. My youth was bent by all the pain, all the anger, all the emotions of that dark sea, singeing my heart, stung by the juice of the hangman’s lime. This emotional desert dries my mouth, the streams of my words, and turns my greeting into a farewell, saying farewell to the dances we choreographed. When we last met, I was mute, unable to tell that something was going on behind the scenes. In a goblin cathedral of stars, where nothing but the fallen blood of my personal saints shall calm the storm that drives the rain through the grim night. And I am ignorant of the indignant cinema behind the wind that hauls my shrouded ship, slipping past rocks and whirlpools, no finer a carnival than the loneliness, the invisible hand that grasps our insecurities and never, never, ever forgets our lost, sunken ships. That fear drives my red, red blood, the power, the force that through the green fuse defines, and our despair, like all the umbrellas painted to tell the tale of the lover’s’ tomb, how the quicksand that grabs you, the ropes the entangle you, the ferocious winds blowing through your head. Love drips and gathers your sores, and I have forgotten how our blood and sugar melts in you.
Sleep calls to me, but insomnia cuts the line. The lips of time kiss the fountainhead of being. Love illuminates the night, and we feel our red blood coursing through us like fire, like flames into the head of that hanging man. How can we light a flame behind the scenes, a flickering green, and a hand that whirls my heart around when filled with all the anger of a moon in thirds, a moon in a sky filled with daylight? I am dumb to that which drives the trees in my shrouded soul. And the painted ropes that sway in the blowing winds to tell of my crumbling clay flower, my youth destroyed. And I despair behind the weather’s crimson wind, burning like the juice of the hangman’s lime. But the fallen caves at the mountain’s base, water rushing through the winding tunnels, hauls my heart in motion, slicing through the dismal night of the goblin cathedral. I have reached that deep, dark age that blasts away the daylight in my veins. How my ennui dries the ocean waves that drives the green light in the lantern in my chest. Something’s going on, a farewell to the cinema behind the curtains of reality, to tell of all the pain of living. But my lingering wonder grasps the deep divide, life going on in sweet streams. I have come here to tell how I forgot our blood is the same despite a wintry saying of farewell, saying farewell to the green fuse that drives me to write a finer carnival than you have ever seen. Your eyes, your hands that drop and gather rocks, drives my hands that grasp the celestial pool and stirs the stars. And my feverish love is the force that burns the roots of your scars. Now you know there’s something powerful to tell the crooked blue and silver lightning that arcs through your dreams with loneliness.The dark sea is made of blood and shall calm you even as it singes your sugar soul. You sprawl beneath the stars that drive the flowers of the indignant, indomitable pulse of life.
I stumble through the lover’s tomb and ponder how spring at the same time has ticked down the days. You know there’s no slipping past the leech of time as you head to the moon. Time goes on the same. I am bent by the heart, as when we last watched your heart turn to wax. And as I stand and walk away, I forget the lost verses that we wrote when heaven came around at my sleeve. Have we never, never, ever gotten out of the quicksand we fell into, that rotten fruit of dances we choreographed? Maybe not.
