Of Moans and Stones

The dog's bark hangs in morning air and behind her, sun bursts through for the first time in days. I wonder: what would I say if I were not afraid? Half of speaking is silence; half of the truth has not been said. These and other aphorisms at the surface.

Body pain as a point of empathy. Gone are the days of elastic weaving through space. I used to be all legs and flow. Nowadays I am a strobed image getting from one point to another in stutters. J secretly recorded me dancing at the ska show, so I have image of all the reasons to just… not.

This weathered porch covered in downed leaves.
This season of falling and staying down.
These bones being milked of moans and stones.

When I am high, I don't want to wear my glasses which is no big deal until I'm not high and I need to find my glasses but what I also like is how I can still see, whether I am high or not, or whether I have my glasses on or not, the rainbows my prisms throw over the walls and couch and plants and sink and bed and face and heart.

There is a creative fire that comes from friction that I miss. In friction, two things cross, like kindling or a crucifix, but where they cross, the two become one. Sometimes I need permission to strike out, set fire, rekindle. William Blake said, “Opposition is true friendship.” I think I know what that means. And I think it has something to do with fear.

If I had no fear, I think I would say: again, yes.