Life is apparently rooted and a stream; both sound pretty modern to me;
when I’m out walking in Walmart or Boston it describes how I feel.
When we were dancing the other night, playing the songs we liked
that don’t get played at the clubs or house parties, everyone chatted
without recollection and felt okay. The stream was dammed
and the trees shed their rings. Maybe it was the drugs and alcohol,
but maybe not. The next Thursday when we played soccer we felt the same.
Something was reprogrammed; when I look in the mirror I am hopeful:
I have so much of you in my heart; most trees never touch,
but they say things and are told things, and some part of them travels the world.
There is something common, though what it is is hard to say.
Someday, someone will say it; they’ll parse
the things we call fragments because they’re rarely put together in a way that feels whole.
The evidence is mounting every day, but that only makes the work easier:
there was a crime: someone once denied it, but there was a struggle,
and now as we exchange fragments we recognize something is broken:
something shattered us and holds our loved ones hostage
for a demand on a horizon that exists only to those drowning in their own flows.
It feels overwhelming, but in a fragile way,
like being told to climb a supple seedling
that cannot support your weight, and never will
because your task prevents it from growing
until one day you finally kill it
and you rest, realizing it is dead.
As you rest, you realize you are covered in sap,
sticky. Everything you touch is reminder of your failure.
Waking up is never enough; we have to get clean too,
or cover ourselves in dirt so the stickiness is neutralized;
the solution is not obvious, nor is the crime, nor is whether
we’re rooted to where we wake up or whether we flow from it.
Sometimes when I’m unhappy, I drive through the countryside
and realize none of the homes I see will ever be my home and could never become my home:
Something has changed; the stable flow and growth of life
has hit something, is ricocheting through an ever more complicated geometry,
and is injuring us as much as it is cleaning us.
The points can be plotted for each of us, but each time the deck of cards are shuffled,
a new never before seen combination arises. Lately,
we’ve learned to count the cards, and even though it is illegal
no one thinks it is wrong. The two of us together might get away with it,
might make enough money, liquidity, to soften each impact, each abrupt change
that felt like it was coming before it hit us.