Spontaneous Creation

Green, to give Earth a chance at something. Blooming? Blooming. The rush, life through corpuscles. Pulsing. Erotic? Exotic? Fun – damental. Firmament: it has to begin somewhere, you know?

Where is the Love? I ask, and look up: there it is. Yellow. Green can’t do it alone. Think of an earth without sun—see? I can’t be done.

There is rising, and then something that feels like anger, but it’s not. It is the rumble before the quake—like that, the pulsing of life, the moment, -s… before.

And blood. It also cannot be done without blood. One streak—look. Like the first petal of the rose shows—a fragment, a slice apparent, not the whole. It is elegant. A sensual kiss to the eye, to seeing. The first, tentative steps of spring: pink, most often. And then sky—

A L L T H A T B L U E

before the parade of pinks come. Then all gets quiet until the rain opens ev-er-y-thing. There is mayhem then. A sort of ecstatic chaos. A shock to the system really—ready. Or. Not. And—well, what can I say? From azalea to hibiscus and everything in between. It’s baudy, often even gaudy, but not one is loved less, or more, moreorless.

What is happening now? I can’t see, I can’t tell. I don’t like it. It’s the turning of a stomach, bad news and frantic sounds—noise, that’s what it is—inside, outside. And I just can’t take it. My heart is beating wrong, out of rhythm, too fast and too long. I am ready for a quenching. I am ready for sky, to breathe again, to fly. That slice of red rose is gone, and I’m sad for that. You have to catch it or not, and if you miss it, there’s no rerun. Tic toc—you see what I mean? Even the clock—there’s no stopping time, it runs on like a sentence—you and me—the soles of shoes: it’s all wearing down. But we call that living, and rightly so.

“I love you.”

Who said that?

I think it was a bird. Or wait: it might’ve been the rain.

“I love you.”

Pause.

There it is again. And now, thunder. So, that’s it. Rain. It was bound to happen. What’s in a sky? What’s up?

We needed that. “Thank you,” I say and the sky need not respond.

Evening is upon us before we know it—tic toc. And the sheen of streets flashing in the whip of headlights. It’s a merry-go-round, sound easier now, and my ears relax, open wider, and so I become what was not possible before: whole. Not pushing out this or that: you, for example. Hurry and havoc and dissonance.

Merrily we stroll along. I love a parade. Diners and sippers in cafés. This is Montmartre, no? Cobblestones all over—parles-tu francais? I know there is an ocean somewhere, but far, far from here. And I know we are all friends, but sometimes I don’t feel it, you know? What would that be like, to always feel it.

What was it I was saying about becoming? I think there were earthworms involved—of course! Where would we be without worms? Or beds, to climb into, pull up covers, sink down and--heels of shoes: clik clock, clik clock. Do you nightmare? Samurai, and cutting, the chase, the falling. Round strokes bring everything full circle. My heart, palms, rough cuts, coconut. I am ready for something sweet. But there is evil, only evil, the chase and the terror of being caught and what happens then, or not.

To look at a placid ocean you would never guess it was capable of such storms. Lightning even, the whole world, it can, you know, all go up in smoke. You’d suffocate first, and never feel the heat, the burn.

Ash, ash, and more ash. Then back to beginning again, starting over. We avoid death like the plague when dying, as we call it, is the prize.

Come over, Love, let’s be delicate together. Be, delicacies, one to the other.

“Is it ever too loud for you?”

Yes! Sometimes I just must… go. Home. And then, after the rain, just what you don’t expect: blue. Robin’s egg blue and bouquets.