You say you can walk on water, but you can’t
With every stride you take, you get a little more wet;
You walk, you sink, you thrash for hope for floating on your back

When you struggle to catch your breath, how do you count the steps?

And as you sink suffocating, on water for dirt 
It’s heavy in your chest, you get a little more hurt;
You walk, you sink, you thrash for hope for floating on your back

With the shifting sand beneath your feet, how do you count the steps? 

I’ll take that water to slake my thirst…
I’ll take that water to wash away my dirt…
I’ll take that water, to give you some earth…

Give you some earth, give you some land on which to measure every step. 

I can’t breathe, I can’t sleep, I can’t save you – you can’t save me;
I must climb, you must swim, we must survive – to count the steps.

I’ll choke that water to slake my thirst…
I’ll douse that water to wash away my dirt…
I’ll drown in that water, to give you some earth.

Give you some earth, give you some dirt, give you some land on which to measure every step.

The smallest increment of time, our paces, is the only way to measure every step.  I promise to count each one with you.

Je peux épargner plus de lumière quand tu chutes.
Chatoyant sur toi; sans fin comme seize enfoirés d’enculés. 

The Semantics of my Word:

I can spare more light when you plummet.
Shining on you, without end, like sixteen motherfucking cocksuckers.

…the canvas awakens on a boardwalk; Somewhere, USA.  Evening dew paints a landscape awash in thick red, orange, blue, green, and yellow.  A tapered handle of the brush echoes the wooden planks beneath them – the staccato of their footfalls as they run and marvel at this moment.  He didn’t envision this; she didn’t design this – they are born of pigment and cloth. 

A palette of color marries their hands in mutual peace.  An emerging illusion splatters in vibrant hues overcoming them both.  They retreat into the panorama, curating the innocent, prime emotion slipping off the toe of the brush.  Hand-in-hand, they await the belly’s stiff hairs to reflect their chatter, their giggles – their wonder.  An errant finger dips into the paint, adding a splash of color to the scene. 

The night keeps pace as they take coherent shape.  He whispers to her definitively the next strokes of the painting.  She furtively, cautiously, follows his direction.  They are rendered an opus.  The tableau evolves into a ribbon of passion; both figures contributing to their shared vision of light and form.  Detail and lines; smooth, wide, and erratic, yield a burst of awe. 

As he balances her elongated neck in his hand, they dance along the wet, saturated backdrop.  They flush within the eddies of thick, red, orange, blue, green, and yellow.  With rhythm in the tip of the brush, they blend a shade neither has previously seen, felt, tasted… 

…45 seconds after REM, they gasp for breath at its creation and melt into its triumph.

This child’s woe: Wednesday’s madness challenged my station on Earth.
Told not to fear, not to fret – as if.

This child’s grief: Sunday’s wishes humbled my passion on Earth.
Told not to speak, not to bitch – as if.

This child’s hope: Next month’s gift incites my purpose on Earth.
Told not to dream, not to want – as if.

What?  Maybe I’m done.

How easily one can slip into authority.  She emulates her mentors – self-professed frauds.  The imposter syndrome begs the hardiest slice of education; embezzling every theory, every vocabulary term, and leaves her bereft of creativity…originality.

How easily one can slip into irrelevance.  She emulates her idols – self-professed frauds.  The inferiority complex begs the hardiest slice of attention; embezzling every performance, every discussion, and leaves her bereft of knowledge…agency.

How easily one can slip into poverty.  She emulates her peers – self-professed frauds.  The underserved majority begs the hardiest slice of recognition; embezzling every plea, every request, and leaves her bereft of motivation…sustenance.

How easily one can slip into an alternate universe.  She emulates her self-evaluation – an actual fraud.  The cognition begs the hardiest acquittal; embezzling every year, every appointment, and leaves her bereft of opportunity…will.

The Lady stands vigil in every weather

Assigned to hold the family tether

She wonders if unity has found its nether

Why can’t the children play together?

 

The Lady frowns dismayed in current climate

Chagrined to hear voice is indurate

She wonders if anomie has found its basement

The ass, trunk, and shell – embarrassments!

 

The Lady weeps forlorn in stormy season

Wishing to school the flock their reason

She wonders if discourse has found its treason

If but she strives a day that’s even.

 

The Lady hopes gravely in final era

Bracing to learn a deal of dicker

She wonders if bargain has found its terra

To live in this land – all together. 

New York, mid-December.  I’m eight.  We played – rough & tumble; I’m knocked to my back. 
Beneath is hard, cold earth…no wind in my body can ease a burial.   Instead, my eyes awake… 

Gold and Crimson.  The skies above, as gray as the earth beneath – the colors pop, signaling another year lost. 

Florida, mid-December.  I’m 54.  We played – rough & tumble; I’m knocked to my back. 
Beneath is hollow, deadened earth…no wind in my chest can ease this surrender.  Instead, my eyes awake… 

Gold and Crimson.  The skies above, as empty as the earth beneath – the colors fade, forecasting another year wasted. 

Earth, mid-December, I’m older.  We played – rough & tumble; I’m knocked to my back. 
Beneath is frozen, barren soil…no wind in my lungs can ease this reality.  Instead, my eyes awake… 

Gold and Crimson.  The skies above, more open than the earth beneath – the colors offering another year possible. 

I catch a snowflake on my tongue.

When time belabors, I wallow
When time quickens, I panic 
Too enduring and I regret
Too fleeting and I resent.

The duplicity of time spawns the deep and manifests the shallow.

When space unfolds, I dawdle
When space implodes, I palsy
Too boundless and I rue
Too finite and I vex.

The duplicity of space begets the waste and laments the stall.   

Enduring this intricate weave, I bemoan he never found the Unified Theory. 

Whisper to me from behind the film that hides us. 
Wrap me in the ties that bind us.
Choke me with the lies that blind us.

COVID my soul that apprise us.

Calls – hoarse, unheard, forlorn: no surprise.

Peek through the mask that shields us.
Leap over the quarantine that separates us.
Picket in the land that divides us.

COVID my heart that despise us.

This petition, repetition, contrition: falls flat.

Heed the rumor – or fact that belies us.
Own the reality that defines us.
Trust the shit that maligns us.

COVID my life that reprise us.

Lucky for those that don the mask of joy…
fleeting bliss, like gentle, golden fingers that caress the gray.

Hellish for those that don the mask of grief…
dreadful angst, like broken, blackened fingers that destroy the gray. 

Simple for those that don the mask of life…
normal souls, like padded, awkward fingers that approach the gray.

Helpful for those when gray paints the pain...
what storm today dictates the mask I don?

I don’t need it to be lightening for you.
I need it to be real for you. 

Something you trust; something you wish to embrace.

I don’t need it to be certain for you.
I need it to be true for you. 

Something you welcome; something you wish to nurture.

I don’t need it to be familiar for you.
I just need it to be honest for you. 

Something you acknowledge; something you accept as new.  

This is your life now.  I need you to live it; with me.

The package unwrapped fetches not a smile nor a surprise. It beats, seeping unexploited hope, no longer granted amity or support.

Another cleaved seam flays the raw, splintered husk. It ambles, hunting unbridled oath, no longer able to capture and retain promise.

In due course the stripped bark exposes a drought within. Yet to forgive the brother, to forfeit the pet, it duly fleshes the draining oneness.

Woeful, doleful it renounces a necrotic, neurotic, psychotic, pathetic ache. Anguish replaces wonderment. A hollow fossil remains, awaiting the next slaughter, ossified by the assault.