Sometimes we are made aware of beacons in the rest of the dark.
Like stars littered across the attics we trap ourselves in.
Sometimes we chase rainbows with beggars eyes and wishes like children.

Some people are like soup soaked bread crumbs and wool mittens with the fingers cut out.
The rest of us are chimney soot.
And they are ‘chim chim cheree‘.

They are song filling every corner of the antique shop.
Silver under tarnish and weights and measures
balancing on the hands of the scale
suspended from the spear of a woman in white robes
with blue eyes that match the sky when we stare at it
and it usurps the corners of our eyes
and we are made aware of how small we are
as we get lost in how complete it is when it is with out clouds
with silver linings that never seem to follow through to rain.

And some of us?

Some of us are rain.

And thunder that shakes your soul.
And images of gods in black and white that burn themselves onto our minds
for us to study with our eyes closed.
And some of us are doing the best we can.
And some of us are not us.
But are the others.
And we would be lost without them
to point beyond red sails on sundown ocean horizons,
just before the world turns blue.
And some are the pops and cracks between the notes of Coltrane on Vinyl.

And you.
You smell of confessional walls and a nursery.
You smell of camp fire blankets and bruised roses.
You move like corner of the eye shadows
and windshield wipers with no chance of beating the rain.

You write like stone tablets and feathers.
Blown bubbles and spun webs.
And you feel like chance.
And love.
And strength.

You change like ropes on ship decks and tarot meanings from gypsy to gypsy.

And you are beautiful.
And beautiful.
And beautiful.

And everything.
And everything.
And everything.

Strong like ropes on yard arms of old ships in ancient seas.
And you go and you take us there.
And we go, because we want to see too.
And we want to be full on wild flowers and raspberries.

And we want you to show us the line on our palm
that separates the dark from the light.
And we want bed time stories and lullabies.
And with my eyes.
And with your own too.
And more importantly.

You.

You are the place where there is hardly no day time and hardly night. Things half in shadow and things half in light. On the roof tops of forever. Coo. What a sight…

I can bottle up some sunshine
to better light your purgatory.  
I can write a happy ending
if you need one for your story.
I can offer a tender moment
and a chest to rest your head.
Or a gentle reassurance
that someone hears what you have said.
I could do more...
If you'd ask.

I remember her hands turning the knitting needles like mercury. Beating yarn into fabric.And in her wisdom, she'd spin her words into gold. I studied each line on her brow for truth. Reading the creases like India ink. Dark. Permanent. Earned. And she hums along with the record, knowing each warm pop and crack like lyrics. Like history.

We skip generations like the songs on the album and I am more like her than I'll ever know. A vinyl copy. Pressed and shiny. But she was gone before such things began to stick.

She is like the smell in a well used kitchen, even when the oven is off.
An afterthought.
A sweet recollection of a melody you hum under your breath.
But I am drawn to her like warm covers.
Like a soft glow.
And me, mid-life, and still with wet wings.
And she prepares me for the world with these moments. Keeping each second accounted for.
One pearl stitch at a time.
We listen as the room melts to afternoon sepia. the song lifts and sways. Kissing my ankles like the tide. Stroking my face like wind.
The woman makes the music sweeter with each rock of her chair.

"Why does the album skip sometimes Grandma?"

She laughs. Doesn't look up.

"Because it is old and eventually it won't play anymore at all."

I knit my brow up like her blanket.

"Then why do you listen to it so much? Won't you use it up?"

She organizes her work, spreading it across her needle as she does the same with the words in her head. The album sings out to her.

"Because it tells the truth."

I listen harder. Looking for hidden words between the notes.

Nothing.

"It doesn't talk, Grandma."

She smiles at how little I know. Sad for me. And says,

"Yes it does."

"What does it say?"

And our game is done. I now have Grandmas eyes, smile, and attention all to myself. She sets her labor in her lap and fixes on me. I am now her project and she will knit me together with the same love.

"Listen. That part says that your friends won't forget who you are. Even when you do."

And they won't. And you will.

"Ah. This part says, You, My Love, are the prize. Not them. Remember that."

And I am.

"This part says that Men don't cry. But if she loves you. If she really loves you, she'll hold you when you do."

And she will.

"This part knows that God is not counting on us as much as we are counting on him. He knows we will let him down and loves us regardless. Remember this part of the song when you are a father."

And I will.

And Grandma sat quietly. Her fingers still seemed to be a blur of motion. Her mind, even faster.

"One day Grandma will quit playing too. I've already begun to skip."

And then we sat together. Quietly.

And sepia became blue. And blue became black.

And all at once, the music stopped. Replaced by a motor whir and a methodical thump.
A one legged tap dancer, facing finality.

"What do we do now, Grandma?"

We sat, listening to more time pass like music. Clickthump. Clickthump.

It was in this moment that I would finally se the jigsaw puzzle for the beautiful picture that it was.
All creases and landscape and hello goodbyes.

Grandma reached over and cast magic as the years in her hand settled the needle into the groove once more.

She answered all of my questions as the music whispered it's truth to me a new.

"We let the song play out."

"Why?"

"Because it's romantic."

The sun had not shown its face for a few days. But this morning he greeted me with angel kisses. A snow storm of tiny floating messages danced through the beam of light from my window to my bed. A path I walked the night before alone. And I watched as he said, "Wake up, Sleepy head. It will be over before you know it. So take in this hug from the world. It is your own. And dance the dance of knowing. Because somewhere far away, someone is thinking of you. Right now. And you of them. And they know it and you know it and in some places built of poetry and ink that is the same as kissing on the wind. So write your song, Sailorboy, and listen to the seagulls. They know best."

And I made my way to a place that tries to be French in China. And had crepes. And now I will go to the beach. Pray until my hands are chalk white and my arms scream for release. Come to some agreement with a rock that is older but not as stubborn as I. And learn that we can bottle memories. But not in photographs. But in poetry. In hopes. In potential. And in potential energy.

I am sending you the taste of foreign salt water in the air. I am sending you the sting of good sweat in your eyes. I am sending you kisses on the wind. I am sending you potential energy. I said hello to the sun today. He said to tell you he'd see you soon..

Turn the wheel into the sun. Forget the stars. Forget the wind. Forget the way the waves are weeping. I am not coming home.

We are never again what we once were. And I am not sorry for it.

Some of them end before the music can even start. And we are left somehow, like monks, pinching book spines like vertebrae. Seeing if we can find our ability to
Stand.
Up.
In words.

Most days.

I am only words.

But some days, I am more.

Some days, the thought of those ivory temples run me up masts..

I am stretched out. Arms wide. Accepting the storm. Ragged.
(Stronger for it. Unafraid to unravel more.)
Inventing time. Investing it back.
Some days. I am yards of cloth, fighting history.

And when my sea is calm:
Puff your cheeks and blow on my spine.
For motion.

I am still.

I am calm.

I am still calm.

I am still calmly waiting.

It's worth mentioning that we never made love.

Now. Everything is different.

I am listening to an ***** grinder, playing my heart on his sleeve. Taking light from my future and shedding it on my past. Saying, "What happened? Where did you go?"

And I try to answer back but find my throat dry and only able to mutter, "I can't feel you, Lord. I can't feel you."

Some days I am lost.

Is it fair, when asked what happened, to say, "She did. Calliope happened to me."?

Start the music. Let the carousel turn. I am not coming home.

Is it fair to say that I am better now. But not always better for it.

I am walking a tightrope of strength and..

Something else. Something else entirely.

Now, I am tired. I am at a loss for words. I am sinking into the oldest crimes in the oldest ways and creating my own wooden chest. You are on it. Carved. Etched. Playing in my mind like laughter on the really cold days. Your fingerprints matching the grain. A petal for each flower I picked trying to fix it.

And this is how it will end. It was this way before it even began. When we found our faults on the back of each others lips with our tongues.

Thank you for teaching me the opposite side of love.

And this is how I will end it.

I will be words. And action. And learn to touch with passion. Learn to make love, like sounds strung together. Masterful. Seamless. As to seem less important. like lyrics. Like an aria. Rising and falling like tides to my mast. Lips pressed and cheeks puffed. And arms outstretched like a horizon to sail into.

And all wonderful happy lies.

I will be more. In hopes of forgetting that briefly.. I once more allowed myself to be less.

And found my self wondering, If it was me who slipped through your fingers... or you who slipped through mine...

I once allowed myself to seem less.

I guess...

I just needed to get you off my chest.

I no longer wish to create.
I no longer wish to write.
I don't want song, or word.
I have no need for art.

I am sounding out my request to any God that will listen.

Give me a foreign beach.
Give me a sunset.
Give me a hand to hold on to.

I wish my life to be poetry.
Every action a song.

I want my days to be the paper I spread my ink upon.
I want 'lost' to mean 'home'.

I want the salt water on my cheeks to be the sea.

Give me mountain tops.
Give me blistered feet.
Give me a mouth that knows my own, like voice.

Make me a villager.
Make me a vagabond.
I no longer wish to be a warrior.

I am sounding my request out to the universe, like a lighthouse.
Come to me.

Make me forget.
Make me forgotten.
Make me to be overlooked.
Make my days count.

Make my days count.

Let this life be poetry.

Give me someone to read it.
Give me someone to understand.

Give me someone to add a verse.