Talking in Tongues

July 31, 2013

Bending longitude,
to collect all the little lines,
as they expand by nature.
Folding them back against their will,
that is what we are doing here.

Taking things,
fitting them into spaces.
Not giving any chances,
being efficient:
Is an addiction.

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Be it a controlled burn
Or hitting the nail on the head
Or watching my skin peel back
The surprising rush of calmness
That was the most frightening

I wonder if I know how to live anymore

It seems that every year
Before the meteor showers
Before the chill returns
When the trains get louder at night
I lay away and awake

I wonder if I know how to live anymore

So I search for a perfect three minutes
I find a new hobby
I fall in love with someone
But will never say a word
When the birds are raising families

I wonder if I know how to live anymore

I have this vivid memory,

it was a hot day.

I was sitting in the back of my father’s Ford,
around five years old.
We were outside of a Seven Eleven.
It was the middle of a DC summer,
humid.
My face was already covered in the sticky film of a cherry cola slurpee.
I was feeling impatient and uneasy,
we were waiting for something.
I asked him, “does time move faster when you get older?”
He paused, and the exhale and exhaust of his…, “yes,” imbedded a foreign fear in me that I am only now beginning to understand.

“Look kid, it’s a dog fight out there.”
Said a shade tree mechanic,
who’s skin was like cooked meat,
with all the flavor gone.

It is peasant wisdom,
that will keep you up at night,
if you are wise.