afternoons feel aggressive so days are marked, of course, by punctuation, or; rainwalkin’ puddle-guppy on a peculiar planet

i read a story about a man
who unwittingly tossed his mind
into the gape of insanity.
he was able to retrieve it,
this mind, his brief possession,
and so we can read his story
without ourselves being lost
in vanishing pain.
in his story, his insanity
was recognized in his inability
to keep from crying.

i’ve accumulated
un-vetted particulates
of information, over and
throughout the softening spread
of my life. such as;
when people suffer
from a pre and post attacking
heart, they become weepy
and tender. yesterday,
i thought of my mom working
alone in the emerald back yard
of her home, making space
for the growth of new rhubarb.
i too was alone,
in a perplexing fiberglass shell
of a sailing vessel that does not
sail. and so i cried
and choked on grief
that i cannot name.

oh analytical mind,
its inability to mouth
even the gentlest of words.

and today, i receive
and read an email from
soul-Simon, an intimate
stranger to me,
though someone who’s
tongue gives shape to my own
body. and so again my
throat seizes and eyes pucker.
and so again i use the tired trope,
again, i say;

oh shattering grief,
from where do you spring?
is it in thudding meat
of heart, preparing me
for attack?
is it in loosening tethers
of mind? might it be
that after decades of anesthesia,
a thawing?

rivulets of melt trace
the contours of my calving
face, if i follow
them, perhaps i
will wander and wend
my way back to the forgotten
self. i do not think
we are really separate,
you and me. we
are eyelash on a bigger body.
we are pores that collectively breathe.
we are strangers to our own
self and forever friends finding
our way home.

Spirit does not live
alone inside us. even
our soloing solitudes
are harmonious.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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