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

Tag: trees

Talking to trees

I haven’t cried since I started taking the white pills.

I used to dream of extraordinary things. Now I think of ordinary things.

I tried to tell you quietly why I didn’t believe in our lives anymore, but you didn’t listen. I grew quieter and mad in my towering glower eating the loneliest salads.

The trees ask me why I don’t think they’re different anymore. I see the red one amongst the sticks and it’s so assuredly red amongst the dead and I don’t care.

One day I spread my fingers and yell to them all at once, “Because I am too busy trying to save this drowning world! I am too busy trying to understand why we are starving, why we are thirsting, how our hearts can break and beat at the same time, how we can love so much and be alone. I am trying to understand how we believe we give a fuck when half of us are thinking about lunch and the other half about how wrong we were for doing the wrong things again and again.”

“Shhhh,” they say, “you will never know why you told him to go when you wanted him to stay.”

Fly

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.