Look at this crystalline form. Transparent cylinder full of promise. Thirsty for more. Delicate. This is my heart. Feeling my pulse pump through my hand as I’ve acquired a cut. I wasn’t careful. I was clumsy. Shattered. This is also my heart. A mess I now must clean up. Take the dog; Make sure he doesn’t step on the mess. It’s all my fault. Guilt and aggravation. Should’ve known better. Should’ve watched myself. There goes my heart. I take the broken pieces and sweep them up, but them in the trash. Hoping I got everything, even the pieces I can’t see. A blind man gluing together a broken plate. This can also be my heart. Time is like starfish mending broken limb. Regeneration. In a year’s time all is forgiven and forgotten. Memory of planting seeds to forget this one, true human gift. You can’t regift it. It has been tattoo’d on. Soul after soul after soul. Down the Styx we all go. At least we don’t have to paddle with our hands. Take your coins to pay the ferryman and unwrap them. It’s chocolate. It’s Hanukkah. Dreidels spinning in Vegas. Slot machine idea generator. It could be anything. Endless possibilities, but yet one true path for all of us. One true root in the San Marianas Trench. One true quake that never stops shaking us. Until babies turn blue and stop crying. Will we ever learn the lessons we need to? In Venice, where they are famed for glass-blowing, are their businesses threatened by water? By climate change and floods? Are they still making their beautiful glass? Is it colored deep and rich with vibrate hues the likes of which I thought I’d never seen? Are gypsies still in St. Mark’s Piazza selling Louis Vuitton handbags and running from the police? 2007 was so long ago. But why does it seem to fresh and simple in my mind? Threading together two different threads to make it all connect. Checkerboard. Moving pieces. Playing by the rules. Have I cheated before and just don’t know it? Listening close to xylophone notes. Lollipop energy. The candy looks like glass. One firm sheet. Is it sugar? Do Willy Wonka and Christ know each other? Have they met on some golden rainbow of his creation? Do they know Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny? Proposing marriage in these questions. Gene Wilder on acid 25/8. Helen Hunt on Crank after.
Little flame flickers away from Time. It is the only thing that is holy and mysterious, self-containing wizard. Wax drips down and solidifies. I nudge it with my finger and it gives. It is a shapeshifter. Odo in the night who doesn’t know who he is. The wick will never fail us. It is God at the end of the Lincoln Tunnel. Abe Lincoln in the 1850s, reading while Mary Todd scrubs the laundry. Cold, drafty log cabin house. Maple syrup drizzled on a snowy day. Aching for more. Aching for warmth. Candles are fear and love. Hot wax in a con artist firefracker. It could light up the sky. And I am too awake for this. Morning spell has broken, I am too aware of myself. Trying to get it all done. Candle as weapon. Candle as projectile. Church, prayers, Christ on the Cross, and Capital Letters that have no Meaning except the One we Assign Them. King James Bible and therapy for life. Songbooks and dinner shows. Communion with a cracker. Wine tastes sweet. Dinner with the in-laws. Fishing on the boat. FDA does not approve. Afraid of fire, even the flicker of small flames; Together, many look like eyes. Watching, watching, watching. Waiting. Their patience is legendary. The light is not enough to write. It can relax or terrify. It depends what kind of trip you want. Salisbury steak on an airliner, chicken dinner on trains. It’s travel, it ends up in the toilet. Plunging my mind half-heartedly, distractedly. Break the candle in half to find the wick, the rope, holding it all together. Now it is crippled and maimed, but still maybe usable. Still functional, but not what the store intended. Shopping carts filled with candles, long cylinders of loneliness, dominoes down the stairs. When will it ever end? Candles that smell good and sweet, candles that smell like nothing, candles that try too hard and end up smelling awful. I can taste the smoke rising from the birthday cake as the candles are blown out. As we take them off, we lick the frosting one-by-one. A preview and teaser of what’s to come. Chocolate cake with vanilla pudding filling. Probably from the supermarket.
Take a seat in the middle of grey room, interrogation light on, hum of pulsating energy. No windows, just walls. Solid concrete. Is it womb or incubator? Freezing cold no comfort, I must go with the latter. The chair is plain. Now it rises off the ground, transcending time in space and changes form in to a folding chair. It is now in the ring. It is WWE and it is getting WACKED against the back of a muscled man. The crowd cheers and hollers. It is painful entertainment. It is raining medical bills and cartoon stars and there goes Roadrunner, taking off. Wile E. Coyote is trapped under an Anvil in the middle of the ring, the official makes the count and declares it a KO. More cheers, the crowd goes wild for Wile E. It’s is 1930s stock footage, black and white with too fast applause. Different camera angles of the crowd, but everyone looks the same. Smell the sweat in the ring. Blinding lights from the center. It’s the poor man’s Carnegie Hall and why not? Why not? Tasting the blood from a split lip, this wrestler, this champion, this golden belt wielding masterpiece. It is iron-tasting, metallic biology. It is the frog on the dissection table. It smells of death and formaldehyde. You can never forget what that smells like. You can never forget this moments of mass hysteria. Mass barbaric enjoyment. What would the Romans say to floodlights and announcers? Peanuts and popcorn and “ice cold beer!” in the Coliseum? Neon signs and traffic after the event is over? Romans watching television? Would it have fallen faster? Are we falling? Only to land on chairs in the after life? “Welcome to the room, Sara”. Will Fleetwood Mac play in the waiting room and we twiddle our thumbs and read old magazines, waiting to meet God? Is everyone flipping out, or are we just flippant? Feeling bad on being unable to focus a thought, but isn’t this focusing? Isn’t this what we want? If I can be the judge and jury, maybe I can be the student and teacher. Was nails against chalkboard ever really that bad? Chairs and tables and Thanksgiving dinner. Four-legged friends. Mel Gibson and the rocking chair.
“Please come dive in puddles with me” – It seems every word leads to a Saves The Day song. London raindrops hitting cobblestones and washing away chalk pavement pictures in some Mary Poppins alternate reality. It could be happening right now. Puddle as in, a small shallow pool of water. But it could be more than water. It could be blood. It could be orange juice. Breakfast table set with eggs and bacon and fresh fruit. Maybe oranges that I will not eat and keep to the side. “Order up!” bell goes off in an old fashioned diner on this Black Friday morning. Black Friday, which I once wrote a song about 5 years ago. I first attempt into my 24/7 project. Galoshes splash. Waking up from a thought. Bringing one back to reality. The sky is overcast and grey and I feel a chill in the air. Dampness pervades even the thickest of layers. Why go outside if you don’t have to? The world looks like a black and white movie, devoid of color. The smell of damp earth and the pores of the world open up to receive a big, long drink. The drops of rain hit my glasses and I leave them there, my vision blurred, it’s useless. I probably don’t have an umbrella. It’s too much to carry around. Too much to think about. I’d rather just get wet – The feeling when you step into a puddle and it’s deeper than you thought. Or maybe there was no choice, no way around it. Both sneaker and sock completely saturated. First there is surprise and disbelief. Then, there is resigned acceptance of what just occurred. Knowing you can’t do anything unless you have an extra pair of socks and shoes with you. Oh, but that “splooshy” sound every time you walk. It can get so annoying. The damp foot, now growing cold, gets so uncomfortable. Coldness mixed with wetness is one of the worst feelings. The “moat” that forms on Broadway and 66th street. What a mess. The times I’ve gotten splashed by passing cars on the side of the curb on a rainy day.