samedi 14 février 2009
Do you think this body has anything to do with me at all,
this heart that throbs its seventy beats per minute,
this blood thick and coarse, these uneven rhythms like ocean,
this veined arm full of scars raised over my head for effluence,
these rubber ribbons wrapped 'round it and pumped up large with
green vinyl and frail wires, then gauged and recorded like
every nickel-and-dime thought in the daily diary I try to keep?
This heart is not an organ at all, no, not a thing beating for a season
but an idea that sings with every breaking dawn and blazing sunset
I've seen, as I sit on the rocks west of all my travelled highways and
brokered mountains, somewhere at the edge of a world where
time itself stands still, a second bleeding into hours,
colors bent wider with light, and the mind quiet as twilight
in blind anticipation that hearts will again pump blood and
tides will be drawn in and out, as we give ourselves over to
our great mother and trust her to fulfill her gravitational pull.
Nothing but nothing is what it seems, for each thing stands as
a representatative idea. So what do i have to do with this body,
this hot blood, this muscular heart, the elastin of my arms,
when i am in love with the silver moon and her symbolic works?
And I tell you, nothing, except this heart so full it hurts.
And what do i have to do with pain at all but love?
And what do i have to do with death or birth when i'm a bird
with an endless ocean to cross and a song for every season?