- Jayadeva ("Gita Govinda")
She boarded for four thousand miles, leaving a hug and a whisper – passed months and severed her ties with an asterisk-latent, weathered epistle. It is difficult to wrap around a memory.
I am finding, in time, that you cannot name a passing moment. You cannot place understanding onto the fading until it is shut. And nothing is ever as vivid in life as when it can be touched, can be seen, can be felt.
We can never attempt to understand aside from persistence.
And what precisely is this understanding? May we find it in a touch, in a sense, in a seeing? Thought is the pursuit of the understanding of the mind through unhinging temporality, much as feeling is the pursuit of an empathy of the soul. How then (with all things considered) do we move without an attempt to understand? How do we remember but in faded degrees of understanding and misunderstanding? A clarity of translucence – sights through stony fog.
She flew in the Fall, when the air was as chilled as the bone, as the tree, as the bed. She stole the time of a boy – and all obligations turned to privilege. They traveled a dirty southern road; a car filled with objects yet to amass separate reasonings; a smile and silence in beauty. The boy found friction in the woman, the woman sand in his eyes. And the days were filled with vanilla, the nights with dim-lit false Irish skies.
I am caught in a wind that cannot be expressed, and it kills me to not let you know. It kills to not let you know. And it cuts to be ambiguous. The persistence of time makes it difficult to breathe, to think, to speak...
Today I went to a church with HDTV screens and prophetic banners; a poorly Photoshopped Apocalypse to mention. Yesterday I emerged (chest bare) in a swarming crowd of sweat, and bodies, and arms – the stage sang of revolution, and there were smiles on all of the faces. “They are breaking our neighborhoods. They are taking our lives.”
I am still yet to take a breath, and I can feel the clouds in persistence beginning to sway. The rain is next; I am certain of its coming.
The storms swirl in ambiguous passing, breaking free from understanding, as all of my lovers (gleaming deep with their night-lily eyes) hold still to the center with a passing vividity of a thousand broken crossroads and the daunting winds of present time.
