I have to get back to where this all began. Therefore, there is no need for a traditional opening, and no need for a typical introduction.
I have to go back to the beginning.
I have to do this for me.
I have to remind myself of why I began this trip in the first place.
So, I have to start from where I started, long ago.
This means I have to get back to where my roots are buried beneath the earth.
I am not too far from where I was when I began this trip.
I took trains, buses, planes and cars.
But here I am again, in full circle.
Then again, I find the suggestion to be true:
no matter how fast you run, how far, wherever you go, the bottom line is there you are.
So, then –
here I am!
I am going to number these thoughts and let them run.
I will let them take me to where I am supposed to be and I will do my best to not get in the way of myself.
I can’t.
I have to make this work because there’s just too much riding on this one.
(You know?)
I am, of course, the captain, the mate, the passenger, or the traveler; and more, I am me,
always.
So, before I begin –
I have to say thank you because no matter where I’ve gone, somehow, you have always been there too, waiting for me to open my eyes
and take notice . . .
1)
She twirls through thorns
because the brush she was born in
was more than what she bargained for.
However,
beauty does not make life benign
to the malignancy of the life around her.
There are different forms of cancer,
equally as harmful
or as deadly
yet, some are undetectable
and even more so untreatable
like the social casualties
or the cancerous natures
of the thorns
that poked her sides
or told her
she was ugly.
And still . . .
she somehow comes on
like the light of the world
behold
the dawn
behold
the birth of sunlight
and behold
the love from her hand
regardless of the stories
she keeps in her soul.
God,
she is unmatchable
because to me
she has no equal.
2)
It is fine to think or to ponder
or to dream, as in wonder,
or as if to look around and consider yourself
somewhere more fitting,
like attending a music festival
someplace, away from here.
Maybe in a small town
southern, of course,
where everyone smiles
and says the most unthinkable things
like saying hello to someone
for no other reason
than to just be kind.
It is fine to consider the world
and look around
and see
from a different perspective.
It is fine
to look through a looking glass
and dream of something more magical,
like an evening, or a time
when the fireflies come around
and flash their green taillights
just before the sun sets.
Remember?
It is fine to reminisce,
even if the times are reminiscent
of a moment that took place
only once.
It is fine to think of a time
that can never be reseen
or relived, and yes,
it is fine to reconcile with better moments
from the past,
to which I understand
this is why we look back at moments
of nostalgia
and remember the days
which took place
back when we were young.
More importantly,
I understand why we look back
at the greater times
and wonder in our hearts,
where have all the good times gone?
I get it –
No one asks to slip away
But life has plans
that reveal themselves
in ways that we could never predict.
Yet somehow,
we are still here.
3)
She looks at him still,
viewing him through the narrow lens of memory,
almost like peeking in
from the crack of a door
that never completely shuts.
But . . .
as fate would have it,
the door will never open the same way again
— at least not really.
I am, of course, at a distance,
like a man on the shore
looking outwards
and watching my bottle
which I have just thrown
and sent out to sea,
complete with my message and all,
dreams enclosed,
and I am, of course, a man,
wishful as ever
hopeless and hopeful
and endlessly waiting
for the other half of my sunshine
to magically reappear.
And sure, I remember.
I remember the moments
which I assumed
would always be bulletproof,
until the bullets of broken dreams
shot at the clouds
and put holes in the ghostship
that sunk in the mist
of something
that was never supposed to be
4)
It is accomplished
said the Man on The Cross,
to which no one here
has walked on water
and no one here
has been crucified since,
at least not literally
but perhaps
there are those who endure
their own suffering
from a figurative standpoint
like my girl, the one
who twirled through the thorns
because the brush in her life
was more than she bargained for.
However and still,
above all,
we are all mournful
at times
and sinful too
but no one among us
is able to cast the first stone,
or the second
and not even the third.
And she?
She still twirls
despite the thorns
the wounded her soul –
and she?
Is only punished for her love,
and served an injustice,
wholehearted and heartbroken,
until death does she part
because otherwise,
she is often dying alive because she is hopeful
and mainly inseparable in some parts,
but she is never together.
But why?
It’s fine to allow yourself the moment,
or to drift or to dream,
or to think of an occasion
where the lights are bright,
the moon is full,
and the stars are glistening
in the eyes of someone you love.
Life. . .
What a trip.
5)
She walks the world
unsure of herself
and unknowing of all she does
or all she means
and too
she is still tricked by the poison
from the thorns
which lied
or taught her
she was anything else
but beautiful.
She wipes away the sky
when her tears roll down her cheek
because, of course,
it is crazy to me to say
but she is beautiful
even when she weeps . . .
She is more than the dawn’s light
or the first glimpse of sun.
she is the universe who weeps
when the sad and sorry rainbows
follow the morning rain,
which are only half as beautiful
as her –
at least to me
And she?
She is the aftermath
of so many outcomes
and me,
I own my faults
and my share . . .
I am the prime motivator
or the consequence,
which she has faced
because my hand failed to move
the hair from her face
which happened
when she wept
the last time we spoke.
I am imperfect, of course,
like you, like her, or him,
or like anyone else in the place,
which means nothing really.
This means nothing,
except that I have faults and flaws
and to be clear,
this is good that I admit to this
so openly
for the world to see.
Yet, I am the circle of sorry moments
that surrounded her,
which I have to change
or improve
before she choses to break free.
Damn you
or should I say
damn me the narcissist in me.
Damn the selfish, the self-absorbed,
and damn you,
the saying which rings true:
You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.
And me?
I am the circumference of a small circle,
which means that I need to break out
if I am ever to be free.
I am the result of what happens
when we remain in a small-minded world
with a limited view
But nevertheless,
I am here,
of course,
to which I might have arrived too late
to defy myself
or perhaps I missed the deadline
to right my wrongs
or to reveal myself in such a way
that I bear my soul
(for her).
Too late.
Too much happened
Too much went wrong.
Too many times
again . . .
Please,
stars, moon, sun, and spirit,
let me have one more chance
to dance by the sunflowers
or to stand beside her now
by the outgoing tide
and see Point Lookout
when the sun comes up
and the waves come crashing home.
6)
I am not a novice, nor a beginner,
nor am I the expert
nor do I claim to be
the perfector of this idea
that all things shall come to pass.
In other words,
if it is meant to be, then yes,
it is meant to be.
But what if?
What if what I want
or what I dream
or what if what I need with all my heart
is not mine
or
it’s not meant to be –
then what?
Tell the dreamer
that the dream is not for them,
and you will only see them more
not less
Tell the dreamer
as they dream for their dreams
that all they wish for
is too far beyond their reach
but only by an inch,
or so.
Which means you can almost feel it
but you just can’t touch it,
at least not really.
And he?
He, being the hero
or the villain
I have walked through walls
and ventured down hallways
which intersected at the corner
of Everywhere Street and Confusion.
There but for the grace of God, go I,
he recited
before attending his unproven resurrection,
somewhere up in Harlem
close to 116th Street and Park.
Nothing is the same as it was,
then again,
nothing has ever been this way before –
or was it?
Or was I someone else,
or was he,
or were you someone else
or was she?
What ever happened
to the girl I saw
dancing in the garden?
Where has she gone?
I ask because I would like to place her
at the garden in Central Park
in the late month of August.
What happened to the place
where they served cuchifritoes
and an old mofongo or the soup,
which was made yesterday
but then why did it taste last year?
Whatever happened
to the youthful spells of wild,
or undying love
that was killed in wars
from an everyday life, or namely us
and hence, whatever happened
to the beating heart,
which is said to be unstoppable,
until it stops — of course
unexpectedly. . .
7)
It is never to late to recapture
something, like, say
the fireflies
when they come at sunset
and there is no reason why
we cannot recreate a dance
or two
slow, steady,
and now that we are older,
let’s be clear that our youth is no longer
wasted on us being kids
too young to know what to do.
We can make a run for it now
or walk alone the side of the ocean
and hear the waves
or feel the breeze
that moves through our hair.
Although I have fallen,
or tripped,
I have never fallen so far away
that I do not remember
what it feels like to walk
hand in hand
with you by my side
together
and meant to be
The Written Addiction 