peach, plum, pear and watery thoughts

i am writing again. about what, i dont know.

but the passsion of this voice overwhelms me, and i have to have to write again.

i am, now, watermelon smoke, and bitter coffee, and lined yellow notebooks, and rain. and broken sidewalks, and old stories, and quiet voices, and remnants of thoughts. and i am firdaus, and slow guitar, and fingers intertwined, silver rings interlocking.

like puzzle pieces.

and spiderwebs, silver strands of almost nothing. and i feel myself, my heart, my words, connected to the others—all the others—are there others? we are each other. i feel our connections, all our iner beings that speak to each other through our spiderstrands, like telegraph wires. whispered messages. one to another. and walking down the sidewalk, i feel myself wading through them, through all the strands that connect me to every pair of eyes and hands and feet i pass, as they break to let me through and then, invincible, reconnect in the wake of my heart’s little boat.

silver strands, like sugar. little crystals of memories remembered in a wordless language we don't understand. and i wonder if they feel them, too, and if when they see my eyes, they wonder how i know them. how they know me. and imagine, just imagine, all the strands on the freeway, connecting and straining with the speed and pulling and breaking and reconnecting.

and consciousness, like goosebumps, awake and alive and unexpected, like waking from a dream. and our feeling, erupting from years of bitter coffee and silence, and all of a sudden we are seized with the fear that where we are going is nowhere we want to be, and a desire to do somersaults in the sand.

and it is unfinished. there is more. always more. spilling. too much apple juice in a child’s cup.


if we didn’t have voices, we’d speak with our hands, and if we didn’t have hands, we’d speak with our eyelashes. just cats without a cradle and words too old to speak.