One grand room is all I need.
One part possibility, one part stage. 90, 10. 80, 20. 60, 40. 50, 50 days. A day’s worth of downy air, downy quiet in downy light. A Bic lighter fuse to straw.
An ebb whimper blend whirl of summation conflagration of you, me. I, thou baby. When we pull the cage drapes, strike the tent, stow the chicken wire meant to keep critters out, tame our critter tempers, no stopping a rat’s lust for berries, give the day its take in filler flowers, every good arrangement mixed with precious, cherry blossoms and rhubarb and music. I will save the scene for a science reduction sauce to study the brain neurotransmissions, micro density weights trying to understand the importance of frozen rodents brains in a sausage slicer per the Sunday’s Times. Of mice, of men, of women.
An idea I (and science) cannot get close enough. to see why weirdo rats pulse like we do. Why we all ebb, flow, dance, weigh our thoughts, chemical feelings swabbed under glass, one column of unmarked territory connecting to another, the usual suspect constellations. Scientists in lab coats figuring formulas for the resurrection of sex, cashing in on a longer pharma forever, a Vegas flush, short, long, of temporary ecstasies, a better than sex sex with strangers substitute, some kind of bamboo bridge between species, as far as China from here. Bottom line is: absence and fondness figure in on love, on desire. An absence of fondness with too much togetherness.
I wonder about my fondness for absence. Ones requiring my being more absent with criticism, absent of self, my being less of me is more, more kind to you, my fullness of fondness sometimes absent, my being so full of my angry dad and mom. They, not so much liking your’s. My tit for tat not fitting your tat for tit tattooed on our forever DNA codes.
to times like that I say, let’s break the fast fast baby, break the love fast and redefine love without borders like doctors do. Let’s offer love to each other, others on the street, in the park, in the dark, on a train just the same, overseas, in the air, birds and bees. Let’s see what happens if we let light tickle us awake as we learn the Swahili secret ways to tango in rediscovered love caves. Us spelunking, caving in, reading caveman/cavewomen graffiti paintings on the wall, learning the best way to float a kite in high winds under cerulean skies, staying away from the high blame wires, the high up trees. The sooner we get okay with getting older, not so much wiser, tossing judgment, quitting that old habit, and feel the wind the better. Yes that. I want to learn to be like the wind more. Smell the gold in air caressing fragrant hills, not worry about owning so much anymore. I just want to get chill enough, quit the fence talking kind of thinking, quit the looking over greener hypothese scenarios, my flowchart on the neighbor yards. I know, ditto. Ditto. Ditto. Ditto for you too.
Let’s quit the merry fairy go round running round the house outside. Part of love the little lies we tell ourselves when we get quiet enough, reframing things when we see we’ve got love enough for the both of us and then some, enough for for all the world.Enough for the invisible people, the gasman, the grocery clerk, the teachers, nurses, cleaning lady. Love the bonsai of love. Love the gaba gaba tea leave love, ignore the uptick regulators screaming something’s wrong all the time.
Call the doctor, the medics. The technopyroannoyances between us, AC DC folks, leave the sex pantomines for others. Whatever. Let’s forget the approach to the familiar, maybe do some porch sitting for a change. Not use the bait hooks so much, look where its gotten us so far, instead let’s drag the fishing pole behind us in the stream from the boat until the trout says, “Enough. I’ve had enough of seed, small fish, and algae. I’m going to take that hook and jump in.” Then we’ll eat well for the night. We all got choices. Fish too.