The walls crept up when we weren’t looking

The ground dissolved beneath our feet

the stars were struck from our vision

this sinking sand once stone concrete

I don’t believe in sticks and stones

I think words can hurt more

They find a home inside your heart

and sink it to the floor

Words wrap themselves around your mind

corrupting all its streams

They pick your eyes until you are blind

They take away your dreams

These words

This is my empty space

Where I can speak without a face so that my thoughts float up to the surface of these tides in their own place

These words will weave a web around the patterns of my demise like seaweed on a sinking thing or dreams removed from undead eyes

There is a storm raging in the center of the sea and angry waves rushing mercilessly towards me

There is a hopeless pit of dread that threatens to swallow me and a heart that beats in broken threads of tragedy

There are the silver linings woven into days to light the hours of our moments and the madness of our ways

There are a thousand steps towards and then a single drop away

There is the unexpected gut ache of a growing disarray

Prayer

May our skin be porous enough to absorb the moment

Our eyes soft enough to take it all in

And our smiles bright enough to light our way

I don’t

Count minutes; I count moments

I count sunrises, sunsets and

and

laughter, the knowing and the glowing shared connections

of mealtimes squished around the table- extra chairs please!

-the timelessly terrific, the

absolutely divine

-the laughing until crying

and offcourse -the fullyfed satisfied sighing

I don’t see the connective tissue of your eyes but the connection it inspires

the windows to your heart and mind; how they say everything in an instant and sometimes fly a million miles away distant

I don’t count time; it would compartmentalize that instant in a way that makes it ever distant.

Like a picture of a painting isn’t a painting at all, or how

a message to a loved one isn’t the same as a phonecall

When we could all choose to be here

-nearer to the Now that is so fleeting,

constantly appearing and disappearing

like a spark or a glimpse or an echo having just arrived

for an instance and then it’s gone into the always-seeable distance

like an evermoving wave always rolling with the times

we could just get on our boards, wait for it, paddle paddle jump and ride

I think

We’re all just surfing time

I can see that

it is broken and that kids know

better and

I wish that I could stop your

Pain but I know that from it

you are Growing

Life death life cycle

I stepped into the rabbit hole and

my soul lost its gravity and fell into

itself and updownflipside

-brace yourself for this scary ride

more scrambled than the eggs that you were cooking even if you tried

imagine what it would be for your imagination to imagine imagination then you have a glimpse into what it feels like to live as me 3 layers of thought away I don’t think what I think or what you think I think what I think you think I think and in that distance that out of breath belly distance

I forgot how to feel my way in the world

compartmentalized thoughts cut off and fragmented in their dust specs glisten in the sun trying to find a sentence but then it all

scrambles into one like a race with no end a breathing in and hysteria as if the

world was in pieces I’ve already accessed dementia the memories defeated what’s left is what’s left is a scrambled egg muttontop achey legs and stickchops

so just brace yourselves as all the words rush in as separate pieces and the world dissentegrates and we watch from a distant distance ceaseless

You keep saying

That time will tell but

why

can’t I be the one to tell my own time? True that

if it’s right then the fiction of it will disintegrate but if it’s right

for me then surely I should be the one to

distinguish my own facts from the fiction in light of my subjectivity?

Sometimes I feel as if time will not tell until it says something you want to hear but what if time is telling all the time and it’s just not what you are ready to allow?

Put on your

Game face ready to start the race and

Speak the part that speaks rather than the brittle raw art of the heart time to speak the speaks that speak the words that communicate the things that make movement

Time to move with it and see the commercial from the conscious that which connects and carved the expression of our faces that which is brutal and snappy not broken and crappy but on it like the edge of a pin on the skin of a floating balloon the creased eyes before impact the invisible boom time to speak that which speaks instead of only the gloom enough of the victim time to answer to instinct and enough is enough time to get to the tough and make our own steps and get with it

Time to realize that time is gone already while you were writing this. Time to put down the phone let go of that wish and make it alone because you certainly got this

And there are words around everything

Words that sink and the ones that swim

But how do we know the way?

How do we put ourselves in a place where we

Are completely still?

So that we might see without blur and in the way of the will?

How do I know this forward is of my own steps and if the river moves me then do I move with it or stop?

And if I stop then will I sink?

How do I know where the seabed is when I’m paddling so fast that sand is everywhere and the ground can’t find its place?

How will I learn how to see if I cannot find my face?