poetry

If Adam Picked the Apple

There would be a parade,

a celebration,

a holiday to commemorate

the day he sought enlightenment.

We would not speak of

temptation by the devil, rather,

we would laud Adam’s curiosity,

his desire for adventure

and knowing.

We would feast

on apple-inspired fare:

tortes, chutneys, pancakes, pies.

There would be plays and songs

reenacting his courage.

But it was Eve who grew bored,

weary of her captivity in Eden.

And a woman’s desire

for freedom is rarely a cause

for celebration.

Wild

Give me silvery strands,

the milky growth of aging

intertwined with the sediment

of youth.

Give me stretch marks

along thighs,

one gleaming stripe

for each year this body

survived winter.

Give me scars and sunspots,

proof of every season

weathered.

Give me laugh lines

like the hyena,

rooted canyons along

eyes and mouth,

impervious to wrinkle cream,

so profound was our joy.

I hope this is okay:

You sit there, feeling important. Feeling amazing. You sing, you want to dance, you feel good.

You sit, now, but you only do that to write. You're bobbing your head, you're in love, you're enamored with existence, the leaves are sticky and the wheels are so fast you can only think of their position as speed.

Miles per hour is a beautiful standard, and beauty's hard to come by in math.

But, there's humility to be had. Try, once, to record yourself in something you believe yourself to be confident in that you've never experienced as an interpreter.

Record and watch, or listen. Write, then read.

Then, will you wonder? Or wander? Saunter?

Or, will you for once, believe in the beauty you create? Why let it go, when it's all that you are? More than have, but to BE. Sometimes it might be hard to tell the difference, but you are what you are.

You are what you are.

Hear ye, and be see.

Sight is flight from the now, it's abstraction the allows for retraction, it's love that you can never get enough of, just... see. Be.

Find the do. To be or not to be, There's the FUCKING rub, for each and every option.

Of which there are many, as many as there are any, fucking things to be.

Words have meaning, take what you glean, I hope you can demean, if only... you can redefine.

Just don't, please, don't defile. I'm swimming in words, everywhere, a messy pile.

File your own, revile what you've grown, and start fresh, if you haven't already, in your complicated flesh.