i begin with a "Hey. What's up?"
and You glance at me, with those eyes.
Eyes that dump me in a pond, leaving
me staring up at the moon --
gray, blue, green - all at once.
like freshly whetted clay, but with so much
life, and wonder (not for me) -- cool... and warm...
alternating, Your gaze passes over me, brushing mine.
my eyes like a Texas winter sky,
all the clouds drifting west, making room
for You to fill me up with whatever distaste, and
moody vitriol i'm sure must follow.
but behind Your eyes I see a brilliant craftswoman
at work -- taking notes, sculpting the complex minutiae of
every word deployed from
Your plush, pursed lips. like the scales of a cichlid, candy-apple wine, emerging from under those gray, blue, green celestial orbs in the sky. and then You speak, and instead of a trickle,
a stream pours forth, every word charging forward with intention,
purpose, each with more direction than anything i could ever
hope to write. each syllable a warrior aching for redemption.
You speak of the World as You see it.
with those clay moon Eyes, up on high.
i can feel Earth crying, still submerged, the sky coming down,
feeding Your anger, my light hair burning up the Atmosphere. and i'm so damn happy to be Here, with You.
and of course my words sputter forward, like muddled children,
mimicking a cloud on a cool Austin day, as it is suddenly shoved
away, to be replaced by a desperate rain, a torrent, never ceasing.
the water falls, unflinching, hoping to fill You up, to satisfy.
but it all drains out through the porous clay, and my heart sinks, like a slab of Granite chucked into the pond by a young boy with
long blonde hair; no distance, not a single skip on the water, and the energy goes out of my eyes, becoming liquid in Your hands.
i could never hope to match that little creator,
molding each phrase like Pygmalion, with enough
Passion, Anger and Love for the fallen, for the
dispossessed, to give real life to the words, to have them love back.
You're a Greek tragedy waiting to happen,
the Hero of a retrofitted tale of love and war.
not Helen, but Menelaus, come to destroy paris for
daring to presume love. You always know the truth of the matter.
You know your worth. and of course, so do i.
i suffocate, stuck in the clay bottom of the pond, staring into Your
refracted Image above the water,
begging for an audience with that
infinitely fertile kneader of clay, who forces perfection from Mineral, paralyzing me as the clay hardens.
The cottonmouth are aroused to action, as the words end, and like
Her words, the venom is unequivocal. I shudder; the Eyes are gone.
The clay, algae moon is below me now, forming a halo as I sink down.
i cough and clear my throat. you're walking away. i wish i could do the same, but I'm stuck to the floor, and I think my shoe is untied.