Threshold of Throats

She wrote vesper sparrows and I felt myself cook from the inside out. Who doesn't fall into lust with a woman who says something like that?

Memories can be like spies, pressing in to evaluate the current situation. Are you a letter from the past or the future, my love?

Speaking of letters, there is a wonderment of leaving words buried in a provocative desert. Let us moan instead. Why carry the proxy of depth when you can listen to the deep spirit song of moans and instantly know what cannot be articulated?

Nothing touches the interior like that which escapes the deepest threshold of throats. Anguish or pleasure – both an intercessory – both a state of extraordinary spiritual attenuation.

Life is dialogical and yet, is not constrained to words. The moan is a birthing sound, a movement towards the creative response to oppression and an entry into the heart of contemplation. It is a sound of anguish and pain rising from the crucible of life. Moans stitch horror and survival instincts into a creation narrative which always has something to teach a listening student.

Surely there is something sacred and holy in that. Surely it would be interesting to find out, yes?

A tree crew cuts a few 75 year old oaks from the neighbor's yard and I swear to god it feels like I am watching downed bird being sliced open while still alive. The heartbeat ends as the spectral viscera glitters like confetti in the damnation of August breezes. My throat seizes and a small moan escapes. Death needs its metaphors, too.

Kenya's red dust and the remnant of green tea air in my lungs – please come close enough to hear.