Enjoy this piece. From the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks. Sometimes we just cannot repress anymore. We have to vent our experiences or we will explode or die or worse. We cry them. We scream them. Some of us write them, or paint them. But in the end we must all deal with them in some fashion. It is the road to healing.
THE DARKNESS THAT GROWS
I am the darkness that falls to the dust
where it billows like a sheet being shook out by
a mother trying to rid herself of memories.
Remnants of deeds and unfiltered thoughts
fall and buzz and flip and now I am
sitting alone tap dancing with words,
wondering when round two begins and
this one ends, wondering why the weight
of the world grows deep and how it
sits precariously upon the shred of virginity
I have left. The golden light infiltrates the pictures,
and the smiles release into old photos
like birds escaping a storm, sensing the
barometer of the air and impending
rain. Clocks tick about a tenth of a second too
slow and eventually I am always late.
I am always a tenth of a second too late to
make it all right—to amend the dysfunction
that precipitates all over my movements
like a donut glaze oozing from my head.
I am the depths of Seattle waterways
beneath the dark of a thousand layers
of dissolved crustacean matter compressing
my liver until it bursts with all the poisons
that I have been storing but not hiding—not speaking of
until it’s too late. I have to handle it all on my own
when it’s on fire and burning devoid of moderation.
The most vigorous storms can stir peace
from behind the security of storm windows. This
is magic dipped in human mystery.
This is the twisted vernacular of the
people that hide the design of their
disease and bury their symptoms.
My symptoms part the seas.
They are stronger than all this.