Echoes

This is for the two-year-olds who can not be understood because they speak half english and half god.

[inertiatic]

bare-necked and tender

golden warm echoes whispered into existence holier than the moonlight in our laps pooling into our hands, overflowing glowing fingerprints pressed onto  thighs and hips and ribs

outlined by the sharp-dark that can only be carved and drawn from the soft belly of lost years and the inky nights that huddled beneath them

the slow approaching sun-shattered horizon ushering a seamless stream of these days of heaven rushing across the field to meet us now

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sun drunk and love bathed

electric laughter and motes of prismatic dust quietly swirling and settling onto every single thing in this room onto and into this field we’ve created of this floor this mountain, this forest, this river carved from memories and moments and each other the delicate edge of a smile, the sharpness of a hip some conversation on some porch, on some bed soft footprints in the even softer dirt this great fire of ours with no ash wish you were here and you are.

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spring sneaks in with a full moon a devious smile and a pocket full of miracles from the small gods

blue bonnets and pecans poetry on fingertips honey on toast kisses on the wrist

a string of winding conversations a stark radiant warmth a moon that looks for us.

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AB-Side

the music we’ve dropped into these bones the light weaved and laid across these limbs

our rubble-gleaned hearts, held now on altars our stitched moments draped over all things, chandelier-heavy

these laughter-reinforced spines these cleansed holy burdens of the ordinary

we, so feral and so calm we, glowing-reflected and buzzing-amplified 

[inertiatic]

the words march forward, noiselessly, of their own free will pushing aside a haze of unformed thoughts stepping over pristine fragments of silence to stand at the forefront of mind as we claw our way out of the boring pessimism of angsty youth onto some half-lit hilltop, an overcast reality ebbing out a whole city full of wandering demigods their lingering power, bristling beneath at least enough to spark when they cross paths.

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becoming something small, but only at first only before the rain, before the spring, during days where you can smell the soil from which we rose from and feel the sun flowing into our fingertips when we bloom

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4/10 - 4

there is something flowing so quietly it could be mistaken for a bunch of fireflies bumping into the edges of a mason jar, an exhale flowing like water, or electricity, or electric water gliding on the path of least resistance ideas carefully sifted through grains of Time quietly, quietly settling into these final shapes

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4/3 - 4

sometimes certain things can be planted in winter even years in advance they’ll grow all the same through the cold, and the dark sometimes, they’ll even stop waiting for spring shifting with change, they’ll stop reaching for the rain sometimes, sitting quietly, remembering glowing no matter what, no matter what and they’ll grow all the same

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A dream of the Old Ones - 3.13

This posh semi-futuristic Japanese restaurant with its crisp, clean edges, and its dimly lit serving area feels somehow old and new simultaneously I see people’s mouths moving but the sound is so hushed, respectful even, that it can hardly be heard between tables...if you could call them that They seemed more of solid black slate slabs that somehow had digital displays within the very stone itself - their soft light illuminating partial faces across the place - displays that held the menu and vitals of the things on the menu and in the very center, a very large cooking area of some sort --- I didn’t remember ordering or seem to notice how quiet it had become when a giant blue, almost translucent octopus type creature, with shifting tentacles that contracted or stretched many times their size, was brought to the center of the table with such reverence that it almost seemed like an offering the creature was completely still and assumed dead until they dumped some mixture of boiling liquid on it and it started to move but not writhe, it seemed comfortable, as if it was waking up the waitress smiled to us, “very fresh” in somewhat broken english, and as the creature began to stir, though I couldn’t see its eyes, it felt like it was staring at us, its limbs and entire body began to morph into various animalistic shapes - cats, lions, wolves, some exotic, monstrous things I had no reference of, and they were all translucent blue with a bit of white burning at the edges and they were all reaching towards us, slowly, slowly it was hypnotic, beautiful, we couldn’t move, but didn’t want to look away either, there was a warmth to it, a gravity pulling ever so gently until a very sharp sense of urgency swept over us, a racing panic in our fingertips as a sort of waking-paralysis gripped us, the edge of vision began to blur, the quiet moved closer and closer ...until one of the staff members casually mentions, “oh, you have to think of a moment before you knew this creature existed to snap out of it or else it’ll make you a part of it forever” and then I woke up.

[ourwakingsoules-deactivated2019]

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3.27

it's late and we can't sleep, the lake is restless and the moon is pulling at something in the trees, tell me where we came from, about the static on the radio, the light in the tower, about the urge to dance in slow motion night is breathing into us, there's a scratching here, somewhere beneath tell me why we came, about the memories wandering through the fog about the reaching, the wolves and the flowers, tell me about how it'll ruin us, about the blocked sun.

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3.26

kindling through winter frost and spring rains,  the smallest trace of light sheltering with our bodies, our ideas, nurturing as it grows and grows through the concrete cracks of ourselves, splitting the seams of night.

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3.19

waking up at sunrise, dusting the dreams from our hair and pillows, we prepare breakfast and poetry on the counters in equal parts, the letters of Balance are always mixed carefully, always sitting beneath  we shrug off the night, shrug on the syntax of love letters and over-easy eggs, we think of things from now and then and again and we simply move forward.

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3.7

Nobody could explain why all the stars starting falling or why the world’s rotation began to slow and how all the animals began to howl in unison, continuously, for days and how the trees tipped over, bent down with their ears to the ground, listening for something and nobody knew why but it was there, beneath it all, growing, rushing towards us like wave.

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3.5

sometimes the seasons don’t roll over correctly and you find the winter blues wandering around in summer, a rush of spring flowing through the fall, the air always tells - some days we are giants, brimming, our ideas leaving faded high water marks on the trees around us some days Time runs sideways, slows, reverses, starts again other days, we are simply sparrows carrying our bit of warmth, huddle together beneath the glaciers of cosmic space.  

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3.1

The truth…as far as unseen truth goes, is that it didn’t happen over-night or over-day, it was a slow churning, the inside type, the muffled but growing type It was as if we willed it into existence, just by focusing and thinking of it, we became beacons …and it came for us and now when we sleep, our dreams are not our own.

[inertiatic]

a trail made from crumbs of light, soft wrists, water on a nightstand, something sinking, feathers spinning in the air, the smell of fall in the trees, something that reaches deep, something rising, something that begins to whisper when you haven’t gotten enough sleep and the ambitious minutes as intertwined and delicate as strands of bright silk half coming apart at the edges from the making and remaking, from the covering of days that were made of broken glass, from the strain of wandering, and from moonless nights dug out from the depths of winter