Five writings from a morning written on a bus ride outta town
I stay up late nights thinking of early mornings and afternoons inside my rose bush toddling around not worried about falls and thorns, pouring blood into the soil in hopes a seed will grow, made believe the dirt reflected concrete to toughen up the shell and cried for self to wake up and grow for hours, now the chance has come to watch bloom what comes from all those tears. My mama knew all along how much of her ways were stuffed deep inside and my father wouldn’t say differ, took a second to swallow shallow water and blaze a trail to see the ocean, smiling knowing my grandma would be happy somebody left door open, traveling with grandaddies bag, stuffed in it the heart that only four other with the name had but, it’s been five o clock for a while now, once again ask my dad.
I’ve been loading up sitting on a belly of dispirited thoughts waiting for the bell to ring and Ali to come out of his corner to meet my eye contact as I pick him apart, every punch is whispered with a who’s the greatest? I’m all stinging bee bumbling around quietly on wood floors, I’m usually wearing church socks when I spit out thorns, willing to let go of everything in a instant just in case this might be my last dance. I met more on the bottom floor than on top but the clouds share the same love of adapting as I do, I see new forms every time I close my eyes.
At the top of it all all I know is what I see, tucked inside a bellow tickled by how I relate everything I see to everything I haven’t seen. I’m back and fourth on the best ways to make seen to the unseen. Dressed in all black without an ominous disposition, just a distinction between what dark actually is, my grandfather taught me that’s where everything lives. Taking on the everything and nothing unless I want it to, changing directions on a one way street to find the freeway, clipped wings off a Phoenix and fed them to my torso, fire burns and makes sure everything I dispense is ash, dove to the depths of the sea without getting my feet wet, I’m still way up here, head in the part of the clouds eyes can’t see.
Search and seizure is a fleeting trait, good meals are becoming harder to find. Riding on the edge of whatever the brain thinks is other worldly, batting eyes to curve balls and pitches not coming at a certain speed, strangely accustom to this dichotomy at hand, flipped back pages and lives, scaled walls in minds eye to see everything for what I create it to be, scratching lottery tickets with the edge of slot machines chancing everything, some days I feel like I’m falling victim to destiny, I’m also not sure if that’s a bad thing, thumbing through study pages written by Hercules, writing script for another generation to read, I’m back to thinking about roses and seeds.
Sunday morning on a bus ride outta town while being outta town, I haven’t seen home in a while, now all I hear is raspy air pockets and the sound of my key hitting the front door, tried to find refuge in smoke but the fumes just drew me in while outside drawing what resides inside. My soul sings here fighting through stage fright knowing it hasn’t yet seen its biggest stage, covering moments in time with smiles for future purposes, remembering how great it is to see loved ones smiling back at me even when I frown, even when I’m back down rummaging around searching for pieces and parts of a story that’s only present in God’s eye, when thinking of a place called home.