the seeds, the trees

"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach

There is a place…

…where the bees live in nests like the birds,

The birds live in the ground like the worms,

And the worms swim in rivers with the otters

And the otters stay.

Their lullabies play in our heads all day

and we have forgotten the moon but it’s always there.

We have forgotten to care, but we love,

and there are no expectations.

The sharks bask on banks like the crocodiles

and the crocodiles are gone.

We eat mint leaves and spiders’ webs

and the frogs sleep upside down

balancing on lily pads and stones that float on water

that covers the mountains

that never fade.

And everything is this way,

everything is left the way it is found.

The only colors are blue and green and gold.

We no longer have eyes, just opaque orbs

like balls of salt,

And everything smells so good – even the sun –

we said good-bye to our eyes and never cried.

No one dies except when they want to,

and eventually everyone wants to die.

We tell our children as they’re sleeping,

It’s time for us to find the moon,

and when our children awake the sun is shining

and we’re already forgotten,

like the crocodiles.


There’s a fly that lives in the corner of my left eye.

It flutters in between my outermost lashes when I look in the bathroom mirror or I’m reading and it’s time to go to sleep.

When I first saw it I was scared because I didn’t understand and that is what we do. But we get used to anything, even if we don’t want to. We got used to missing you, and now if you died in Australia or Fiji or something we’re not sure we’d pay $2,000 dollars to see you.

When I was happier I used to see diamonds when the buildings cut the sunlight that hit the leaves hard but delicate like glass,

and the light turned the leaves into diamonds

and man, I can stare at a tree of jewels for longer than I could have ever looked at you.

Now I have this fly. It sleeps in my brain. I don’t terribly mind. I’m clinically unexcitable, the doctor said.

But you’re not here at night when the city lights surround the trees like friends, and my heart swells bigger than my head,

and everything is quiet and simple and good,

and I can breathe and live with everyone dying and dip my hands into bags of dry beans and paint my skin gold and let you go because finally everything has fled from the center and you are just a stick of bone,

pure and white and strong.

You linger in rocks and air and the pond we swim in where you grow like algae and touch our furs lightly.

Acidheads, it’s beautiful, I swear.