I need time, time to know you, because time is sacred, sacred as the sun which shines behind you through the window, lighting up your dark eyes, so that the retina of all my need is fulfilled through your smile. I study the release of hormones, in the endocrine system, to their receptor sites, and think of how the grey matter of a spinal section from the thoracolumbar region, causes my heart to race, my pupils to dilate, my breath to quicken through the synapse of cholinergic to adrenergic cells, and how this release is then tempered parasympathetically, a collaboration of body systems combine, to bring me a sense of attraction, a chemical stimulation, and then the sudden release of oxytocin, when you say you wish to hold me, say you wish to hold me, though you may not say these words so precisely, and a calm sense of the world being right, for the first time in forever, makes me believe that hope is not wasted, on two uncaged birds, who have all the sky as their own, to fly wing to wing, then tell me this silence was nothing, it was only a small abyss, meant to be crossed, on our way to each other, and I will take the ache of past hurts, past trauma, and make the music a bird longs to sing, deep within myself, my own crushed cadence will be synchronous with beauty, with laughter, and the forgetting of pain. In a place so rare and mystical, an innocent space, where we meet, reaching joy and discovery, timeless and eternal, like a magnolia tree, or my desire to make you blossom, incarnate, reincarnate, bud, bud off, spindle fiber, leaf, vein, cyclic season, protein chain, long, complex, regeneration, cell death, recovery, nourishment, deep and enduring, oblivious of clock and counter, moon rise, sun set, encounter with God, a new religion, a ritual in time of repetition, a broken pattern, a bad habit dying, a new cycle being born. Goddess and Gaia, wolf and messiah, blood, blood orange, the way she drank slowly in the midday heat, and when I spoke her mind was far away, so far away, a grove of new oranges grew in place of the empty cup she held, and when that colourful bird peered from it’s nest, I remarked, how exotic it was, no place on earth should be worthy of a bird with such colour! The green, aquamarine, crystalline water, was as clear and lucid as the dream as it lay dying, while we walked together through emptiness, footprints in sand, lateral was my hand to hers, I should have seen, it was not your hand, your smile, your dimple of elation in the bleakest moments of longing, that made me want to die and come back to life again, a new person, a free person, without the anchor of the Aegean. Cycle, rhythm, zodiac, cyclic, Cycladic, but her heart was Ionian, deep and cold, as the coldest sea in the world, and when Neruda said he wanted to do with you what the spring did to the cherry blossoms, it was my thought he echoed, decades ago, when you were being born for the first time, in an immortal country, where loneliness ate through hunger, and I as a small child, walked along the Pacific coast, contemplating regrowth, through the arms of starfish.
Category Archives: Science
It’s funny when he sees me, he thinks I need saving, because he sees only the most tortured parts under the microscope, “sorry you hear voices, I hear them too, the voice is audible, sounds like something sinister, perhaps you might think of praying,” is what his slowly sinking gaze speaks inaudibly, and when the doctor asks, “has anyone here ever seen a cadaver?” Not one of the nursing students answers, and he, the only man with a credible soul utters, “yes,” all eyes are on him, all the freshly pricked virgin ears, point in cochlear attention. yada, yada, “I once knew a man who was a professor, who had access to a morgue,” the topic is rigor mortis, stiff corpses, as I sip my morning coffee, and take a bite out of my raisin tea biscuit, alone in the back of the classroom, because I came late, and knee boy took my seat. I mutter under soft tones as all in the class attempt to lift the heavy air with their superficial speak, and the doctor looks at me, walks closer, asks me to repeat my words, but no one is listening, or so I think, when I say, “a baby, I saw a dead baby,” -“oh what did it look like?”-” It was limp, it’s arms and legs dangled.” He walks away speechless, then the boy who dreams of blowing Adam in eden, whilst on his knees, writhing w/ a painful patella, turns my way, holds his gaze, and repeats that same sunken look of sympathy, as inside I smirk apathetically. No one dares to ask, choosing instead to stay silent, yet I hear their thoughts float through the air like disembodied voices, voices without flesh, stiff voices with rigor mortis tongues. If they’d have asked, I’d have told them, I felt nothing. I felt nothing, I saw flesh, in the places where her infancy bled through purple epidermis, and without asking, I knew why, why the paramedics kept her for over an hour in the ambulance, when she had already succumbed to “primary flaccidity” to save a young mother from the eminent shock that she was soon to feel, as PTSD leaked through her veins, like ink from squid, a thousand miles below sea level, where no voice could ever be heard.
There once was a cross-bridge, where thirty myosin heads could be seen bobbing on the surface of the river below, instead of help, they were screaming, “ATP, ATP, glycogen depleted.” There has been a deterioration of the sarcoplasmic reticulum.
Somewhere on a mountain in India, you were learning about the particles of sand in the rocks that expanded from the boulder of your aspirations. Speak nothing of the weight of it, small unrelated sibling of brown skin. Don’t carry the weight of the world, crossing continents, shifting from what we spoke of as a caste system which broke open and slowly became something of a mineralized memory, chiseled sharp as a surgeon’s instrument.
When I was ten years old I felt God enter my bed and lift me toward the sky. I may have at one time cried over the death of birds. Never once would I imagine an unborn soul’s karma would meet with mine to rise up into the white of discarded feathers, else pull those makeshift wings over her own small body and fly.
Truth drizzles from the tongue in crowded corridors, where from behind the girl without a circle flocks towards my side in tacit approval, smiling back lost decades, where among you all I would have been unrecognizable. Her and I are the nuclei of free radicals, I laugh at the open door for rebels to pass through, gaining entrance freely. I hear your own laughter echo back to me.
We all started with a dream. Today that dream dies. Today the scope of practice is spoken of, and the post trauma of seeing small children, like smashed eggs on the sidewalk, where the yolk of what we become gets burned beneath the sun. My heart, my heart lies lateral to my body. My soul, my soul, lies proximal to the sky. Skip a beat…
listen for the atrial flutter of a butterfly, inflating beyond measure, auscultating systolic pressure.
120 over 80 mercury, retro to distal, the parietal of my hand reaches through the ventral of the darkness, separating the opposing sides of a funnel cloud in utero, tapping on a stethoscope.
The eyes open as light floods the pupils, dilating variance, ascertaining vision, a flash of recognition, the first stranger we meet,
our first lover, the keeper of our primary impressions. When acceptance or rejection tattoos the future on our small dangling feet.
The first spanking or christening, followed by the first kiss,
Before the abyss, and after the abyss.