You have to understand, I wish that I could write about a love like that. It hasn’t yet come. There have been tulips, mountain tops, rooftops and wisdom. There have been kisses under rain drops, full moons and orange circus tents. There have been moments that outshine the rest and yet still I am found empty.
I want to write in roman numerals. I want to write in three/four time, six rolls of black dice and climbing&counting the rungs of the train ladder. I want to write based on miles of states and separation. Written numbers of formed connections, kisses, heartbeats and once loves, wilted. I wish my fingers were pens, my skin paper, this moment all documented. I want to write the slow sound of your deep breaths when you are sleeping. Every one of your shadow words like: cloud, rainbow, shooting star, lucky cigarette, free shot of whiskey, quick conversation with a stranger. It’d be nice to write like that.
I. I fight the letter, the word, the object, the statement. I resent my own vanity and arrogance. If I am told to not speak until I am spoken to, I am just fine singing. I have a collection of feathers and bones and two cats that love me. I am a one hit wonder with one too many hits. My mother once read, “Give me liberty or give me death.” I want liberty enough. Enough to go blind, deaf, mute or dumb. Enough to give away the I and take whatever I can get. I am not afraid anymore. Maybe just a little.
Let’s start with a dance and then move to a rhythm. Maybe we can find G-d in all this dust, soot and ash.
I am practicing kissing the ground, Rumi. I’m not afraid of heights, darling. I will climb to the top of Babylon and talk to God for you.
We’ve been talking about emotion all along, but if we came down to it all, it’s simple math.
Your one is worth the stars. I would be a zero for that.
There are many things that I want. I want to be well read. Rumi, Salinger, Bukowski, Mojgani, Steinbeck and London dripping off my tongue. I want to ride every train route from the North to the South. I want to feel the wheels groan, grumble, laugh and sing. I want a hand in my hand, a hand on my heart - counting beats - and a pair of hands held high like mine fingers outstretched for all our wanting. I want bruises, scrapes, battle scars and mayhem. Flat tires, bounced checks, boxcars and poems hidden in dress shirts and favorite dresses. There are wants inside of me that I can’t speak of. Wants that are impossible and ignorant and uncouth. I want the world though my arms won’t reach around it. I want love, intangible word that it is. I want want want. Then I sleep, to wake up wanting again.