'my heart feels big, so, this' i say in my head and then i typewrite there. i walk forever there, i make everything else so, so quiet. i say 'so' twice. i go places i know really well but haven't seen in years and i breathe in with the hands in my heart.
just walking. to walk. in the fall, in the winter, everywhere, every second, every season, walking was singing. 5:47pm, waiting on the train platform for the F to get to class, headphones and a stillness only a city could birth. to doctors appointments, to 6th street, to 13th, drunk stumbles at 4am - the night air so alive, begging you to dance, to acting class, to a party - butterflies doing those things to your heart, to anywhere, to nowhere, everywhere. every thing. when i say it i mean it, it's e v er y t h i n g. the sidewalks were big faces that belonged to your family, ancestors, angels, to genuises and ghosts. it's one of the most beautiful things ever that existed, this place and time, it lives so largely in my heart and and if you look at it all right everything makes the most beautiful noise no matter whose died no matter whose dying, what pain?
do you cry?
he asked me who i pray to and i said i'm not sure it just comes out. maybe the scratchy sound of bad classical music in doctors waiting rooms accompanied by that static feeling, waiting for what? for ruin? that man that was always outside of connecticut muffin on 1st street and 7th avenue selling books, the best ones. jumping into my parents bed in the mornings, their still sleepy smell and the pillow around my dads head, always pressed by his arms over both ears like he was locking his good dreams in. a babysitter i think i was in love with as a child, she had one curved ear like an elves that she'd always let me play with. a coffee stained and coffee scented toyota. a glass jar of pretzels, clasping open and shut, couscous and spices and chili, the framed photograph of my best friend so small, riding the top of an elephant. the grapes in the backyard that fell to the ground from the overhead vine to stain up the bottoms of our feet. a wonderful older man teaching me to push my thumbnail into the skin of my fingers, hard, when getting a needle to dull the pain. i still implement this theory everyday.
how do you write the world down? it doesn't fit, i'd do anything to bring you but i can't. i can't. it will not allow itself to be contained. i drink too much tea, i try and rest, i read bellow and updike and i envision a healing, i let the words in my head slow-dance lazy and lull me to a daze i never share and i wait for the day i can hand it right to you.