prune the tips, the roots release; disturb the roots, the branches dry and fall. all in song. death, the dark interval. breath, the vital evidence of our ultimate boundlessness.
yes, vines sometimes pull down trees. that’s part of why they were dreamed out of the dark. the great ones cannot be great if they cannot also sometimes be called all the way back home.
look: to anyone who longs for truth and struggles sleepless and in pain through the accretions of digitally mediated deception, look: two lies don’t make a truth, but the collective weight of all this contradiction will bring itself down back to the one who can turn it all to life. mother soil. humic mercy. the ceaseless prayer of the millions of invisible decomposers wait to sing the melody of this aching senescent civilization backwards into trace minerals, trace nutrients, trace feelings, trace meanings.
in-breath, shudder. the re-expansion of constricted rib cages, the shudder of a skyscraper foundation; out-breath, sing. the song that streaks into the sky like a firebird, the cry that clears all debts, the diamond mirror light behind the eyes.
i am a reluctant ecstatic and every coy dodging of the question of how i am doing transports ions to feed the quavering action potential ready for a synaptic bolt to tear up and fertilize fenced downtown parking lots.
in this torturous life where i watch everything i was born into turn into resentful upside-down autophagy formatted for maximum click-through-rate, one of the things i struggle with most is the bottom-of-the-belly urge to holler and burn with gratitude flashing through my eyes proclaiming this cleansing renewing all-forgiving love that somehow i and everything seems to be made of.
i bow low, so low, so low.