A Sky Story

The colour seemed loudest at night and the red rock bloomed like honey trees and I'm here and I'm now and there is nothing the world can say.  The man is too little to know of his wrongdoing, much like the long-haired stallion is too keen for his own good.  It's a type of give, a give and a take, but mostly a take.

"Owwwwwwwwwiiii" the man cried and all that heard it floated to the tip-tops of the heavens above.  Like a great big shadow in the sky, with cotton candy stripes and big yellow sunbeams!  You're flying and you don't even know it.  Flying and yelling and screaming at the top of your lungs for all to hear, but no one is there to listen any more.  Their eardrums aren't developed and they have plugs in their ears anyway.

Too much sound.  Too much hot hot fever.  The boy can only handle so much before he is pained and dying inside.  He asks if it's real and if it's real if he can hold it.  "No" is the answer, "and you can be quiet about it too".  Silence.

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, you'll wake the neighbors".

One. Two. There is no sign of the here and now, there is just the then and later.  Once the sky falls and the people float to the ends of the earth, the world rewinds and all becomes still, as if it were just the beginning.  Then the typewriters begins buzzing and clickity clack of the keys are writing the story and pretending they know what's good for them.  The story begins within the story, an utmost lie if I ever heard one.  The story never ends, just goes and goes and type type type type ype ype ype pe pe e ...

Keeps on and keeps on and rewind.  Buzz.  The sound is deafening if you get too close and you'll go blind within a minute if you let your retina focus too much on the moving parts.  You'll believe it when you see it.  You'll be promised if you don't cross your toes and your teeth are straight.  The sky is only so far up and the moon ain't no picnic either.  

You'll get there someday so don't worry.  They all get there someday.

The song sings and the birds fly. (Is that right?)

The way the cacophony of daffodils encapsulates my very specie. I'm alive, they call out and I'm flying with them. (What are you talking about?) It's everything you'd expect from a land that was wet and crawling and full of life. A place unfamiliar but yet, totally understandable. The way the light shines on the moon but it looks like the nails I bite off when the nobility is wearing off. (Where can I go after the moon falls to bits?) I can see the sun, I know it's still shining. And everything feels like it was going to be that way all along. The stars and the way the curled up man lays next to his pregnant wife. It's love that happens and the world lets out a large exhale. (But what's love?)

This is where things get difficult. The land masses up and the wind starts flying into your ear and making the noises, tiny holes in cinder-blocks. There is kindness there and stories to tell. There could be a big boom if you're lucky or you could be distracted all along. Distracted by the little stuff that doesn't matter once you think about it long enough. The smell that gets you down or that damn Langston Hughes novel that's stuck in your head all the time. What does it even matter? What is the matter? (I'm sad. I'm exhausted.) You're weak and only think of yourself. You're distracted. Not the sun on the moon or the shimmer of the stars can help, you think too much as the sap collects on the inner most crevice of your fingers. (The stuff gets in there.) Snow melting on the tip-toppity of your head and dripping down until the coldness stops feeling cold, a shudder to help it all release down, down to your temples and another shiver-shake gets you by. (The shakes have got to stop.) And the trembles too. Those are the worst.

The mountains can scream only so loud and the children on the swings still won't hear them. (You're crazy.) Stand there by yourself and make yourself hurt. Trapped against something hard and digging at your skin. Now run towards what's making you feel sane again, run faster than you thought possible. Cross that ocean you were afraid of. Cross it twice. Make drowning noises until you actually see bubbles caught between your lacrimal sac and eye-socket. Focus on the light shining from above the surface of the sea. See it? (No.)

Maybe I'm too much. The ducks seem to always be quacking for more bread but i have no more to give, well, none without mold on it anyways. I still eat the crust and all. The ducks can come back and I'll be willing to give. (They come back every spring.) My clasping back is done for and I hurt still, but I'm fine, I can tell because the mountains are still calling and the children are still swinging and the ducks still quack. (For now.) The moon reflects back the light of the sun and I know it exists somewhere. I've made it out of the ocean and I'm on land again. Maybe I'll learn how to fly.

(Are you still there?)