Hole In The Head

Capana, Iowa City, 6-28-2011 12:31, Listening to Selena Gomez

Must write. Let them kill me. Let them put me in prison. It is prison to be without it. It is like being inside a drum when the noise gets so loud that it destroys what little sense is left in my head. I breathe in the perfume of a thousand women that have moved in out of these doors. My fingers quiver. Missed my beta blocker. Truly am insane. Let that go as well. Let it go. Let it all be gone but leave me the words.

Silly talking not needed. Let's go. Let's dance. Skin to skin. Lips on hips. Tongue caressing with searing heat.

Join it. Do it. Feel it. Can you turn back again to a place you once lived it? Can you find where you lost it in the cold and turn back up the heat? I hope it can happen. Perhaps, I can kindle it here and now and it will reach the places that need it.

Who cares if there is a response? In the end, aren't most of us caught in the whiplash of the shadows that once were our love. They will have to do it seems. They will not be one I want, but they will warm me for a time in the night. In the morning, the words will come again. I will not lose them. How could I? Without them, I cannot feel anything at all.

I will learn the blues. I will learn the art. I can do these things. They are easy. They are all things that once I knew. Things that became more alive because of you. They will be poorer if you cannot be here, but, I do know how to breathe. You are inside me. With me forever. How many times must I weep for you to know this? You have a dilemma. I have a broken heart. Yours may be analyzed. Mine cannot heal.

End of me? Maybe. End of my life, perhaps.

Once a zombie. Now awake. But where are you?

Massages with tender touch, chocolate daisies and, remembered birthdays, are they ever enough? Does love that lives on these ever last? I truly do not know.

I would run to romantic love if I could find it. Its comfort and peace. But there is a hole in my head, a literal physical fracture, that has lost the ability to respond to ideas of heart, love and loyalty that seem to be accessible to most other people. A modern day mutation of Phineas Gage, this horse is so tired, it can barely walk. But it does that much at least, in the hope that it may find a stall somewhere.

Listening to these songs brings no physical healing to the brain. Emotions run where they will. It seems I cannot find a way to move my feeling to a place that is helpful to anyone. So. Rest from the music for now.

The Preacher's Lament

The Preacher's Lament

Dale S. Hankins

And then the preacher approached the stage and started to sing:

“The senses cannot see, cannot find the place between the sheets of the mind, when there is so little space for time and peace of mind. Let us stand then. Let us scream against the fear. Let us burn it down. Not to the ground but below where the ground has been before, below where it has ever been. Desperation of a declaration. Let our love stand, to be seen. Naked, in full sight, cloaked only light. Free. Free. Flag waving in the wind even though there is no need for flag or wind.”

The crowd remains after the burst and then, then we see the little ones. See the neighbor ones the ones so long in fear; the ones who can now walk freely in the breeze. They are freed because the preacher has felt the last of the binding, the last of the whipping for being himself. He does in truth sing a song of himself, to himself for himself. What other song would he sing? Singing someone else's song means his death.

Later, the preacher stands in the coffee shop, drinking pot after pot, of ruby tea. Outside the window, he sees a beauty of red above and red below. A tasty peach that IS beyond his reach. But peaches no longer bind the one who has entered the land of the preachers. They can be tasted, but are not needed.

And then another comes--the one in the paisley dress comes to stand behind the blue and orange madras shirt leaving the dog tied to the tree standing in the sun. The dog does not care. It pants and is free. The madras dances, bends, flexes and finds itself back inside. People swarm along the pavement, in front of the maddest preacher the world has seen in this land or any other.

The dog lies in the circle of a lake at the foot of the tree. Resting finally, not worrying about the passers by. The dog of all the preacher's past and bits of his future. Wrapped in a golden cloak, wearing a purple leash that binds it to the tree.

Can the preacher untie the dog? Does he even know of dogs and dog like things today?

He has truly touche the sky of the mind finding places. Empty places and places full of pain and places where pain is a meaningless word. He did not choose the pain, the dream or the dog. They were just there.

Once the preacher feared what the others would think. He wished them no harm. He wanted to help. He could not find them. He could not touch them. All was seen through the glass of the window. A window he has not put in place. A window that he could perhaps shatter, but in so doing would he not bring down himself and those he treasures most?

Let it stand then. Let it stand for now. The window that keeps his feet in this world, the only world he knows. He can still find breezes here. He can still find friends. At least he hopes.

I've been visiting my father, who is recovering from the removal of his spleen. I thought he was near death. Thankfully, this turned out not to be the case. I know that he will die someday, just as I will. No sense spending each day worrying about death, and what might happen if I do.

Life is beautiful for me today. I will enjoy the gift. Who am I to deny it? One of the greatest gifts to me is the joy I get from writing. I used the gift this morning. Here's what came out.

We Are The All

I've been the abuser. I've been the abused, the double time looser—the one none would choose. I've been the greater, and the lesser one too. I've been the slave and the slave maker too.

Oh, I've been the all, and all, and all, and all. I've been the all.

Whatever I was, it looked a lot like you. I once was a king and the king maker's tool. We've carried the murder, deep in my soul. We've seen through the gunpowder's haze. We're children of the instant, the ancients of days.

Yes, we're the all, and all, and all and all. We are all.

We can lock ourselves up in a prison of fear. We can make ourselves worry the world's end is near. We can judge one another, finding fault after fault. Or, we can stand up for kindness and walk the walk.

Yes, we're the all, and all, and all and all. We are the all.