Genesis

With just two words, I dreamed. Stopless wind – Jorie Graham, how clever you are, and how artful your musings.  How are my own words so impotent, tiny in comparison?

Every now and again, an internal fever clutches at this gut, turning it once and again upon itself. I don’t know what it is, wanderlust?  It’s a drifting: buoyed up without an ocean, like a helium balloon that’s reached the zenith of flight, where the air is lighter, emptier, and cold crawls the spine.

Am I a star, staring down distantly at tiny humanity – ah, until the moon sidles in front of me and blinds my sight. Even so far, this exhausts me, the more for the daunting mess of my immobility. The greater the cloud of witnesses, the more silent this soul.

the first trees before seeds, grasses, and leaves

(was it green, the virgin earth?)

I gaze upon the lounging, white-beard god

reaching the sharp-nailed finger down to trace shapes in the sand

some noumenon exist in only dreams, I think

until Eve wrestles free from a dusty, drowsy man

(was there loneliness afore the sin, in paradiso?)

lost, frightfully lost amidst

Autumn, Eden’s final season, and a golden road

paved in a burning scimitar of leaves

how petty Cain, you are,

would that you’d seen eden

instead he killed for he was able

 ....

tbc

g-juni; lightheaded; inhibition; noumenos; not what I have not, but what with what I do; poirot