When I first met her God put a speaking trumpet straight up against my ear and stated very slowly in that Godly voice that is a mix of the ocean's roar and the singing of Barry White
"This is the one you've been looking for."
The stars were in on it bubbling like champagne in the night sky singing a sweet accompaniment a singular poem of one word: Yes.
What would you do?
I took the only possible path: Surrender.
Gave up my wandering ways quit my womanizing got hitched straight away tied the knot didn't know a thing about knot tying but the **** thing held.
And here we are. Poet number one that would be her.
Poet number two-and-a-half me
Marriage solved nothing brought more questions than answers more unfinished business than completed tasks
Yet at this late stage a sense that against all odds against the evidence of my hands against every argument presented by the priest who reluctantly married us
Something has gone wonderfully right.
The stars, dear friends, truly know their business.
I met a genius on the train today about 6 years old, he sat beside me and as the train ran down along the coast we came to the ocean and then he looked at me and said, it's not pretty.
We were misfits the neglected ******* of a backwards world that rejected us not because we were sick demented or dangerous but because we didn't prescribe to a preconceived notion of what a functioning citizen was.
Not rotten enough to spoil behind the bars of a prison just competent enough to work menial jobs and drown our sorrows at the corner pub.
We swallowed this hard truth the same way we drank our shots with no chaser and at times it burnt maybe even made us tear up but we never let it beat us (too strong for that)
We were beautiful resilient beasts that could carry the weight of the world upon our shoulders and it was heavy but we would tell ourselves "doesn't every world need an atlas?" so we went on holding up the sky when no one asked it of us.
I'm interlacing with Lehman again what does that mean I don't know but maybe the answer connects Dean with Ella and him with us in Film on TV through VR singing Broadway Medleys in a cool Grandfather's wobble in a crystal Voice like Mom's clarion call a silver thread running through our dull tapestry I'm mixing metaphors muddling music weaving songs before work before heatmaps Seurat R packages multicolored modality in higher dimension again what does that mean I don't know but maybe we just keep interlacing