it’s the friction in the nonfiction of your life that makes you grow
it’s your own shade of grey not pristine black or white that takes you where you go
if where you go’s not where you want then where you go you go
if where you go is where you want then where you go you go
I go you go he go she go we go I go you go
and where you go I go I go
and where I go you go
always going never gone
I go you go he go she go we go I go you go
always singing our old song
always going never gone
the sun is up the sun is down
on the country on the town
on the shackled on the crowned
the sky clouds up the rain comes down
An excerpt ...
I light a stick of incense and lock my door. Before puffing out its flame to a smoldering ash, I am moved by the visible and tangible glow the lit incense stick casts on my mouth. It is so warm. It is so light. And my face is cold because of course my window is open and it is the second of January. Secrets fly faster to me through open windows and linger longer behind locked doors. So that is where and why you find me now with lit incense in hand admiring the constant play of shadow and shine of glow and gloom across the landscape of my face. I am thinking to myself, what if the sun and earth love each other like this flame and the globe of my face. And then I think to myself, they do. They must. The constant seduction and courtship of one another. The earth, ever the tease, always exposing more while she takes more away. Spinning and twirling away and away, but also always rolling and rolling back into the arms of her flame. It is said, in Madame Fey, “Living addicted to she who is addicted to me is the most constant and clean energy I have ever seen.”
