hyalite untitled
The water, dark today. Black, but not in the way some people have written. It’s a stone black, obsidian chipped by wind, murky at its heart and morphing choppily, like a stop motion animation. On the pebbled shore I sift through stones wih my feet, looking for the heart rock— epistolary— the one which would let me know— rough in the hand— that I have not been wrong or foolish or naive or whatever else. The thesaurus in my mind is a loaded machine gun pointing straight down at my chest.
I pull up a dark chunk, palm sized, mishappen, the memory of the water frozen in my hand. It turns, interfacing with my skin and molding me through the holding. I feel like the proxy expression for all this world, so full of itself the seams rip and there’s nowhere left to go but into me, prodding like wind at a bag.
This is where I start writing, and over here is where I stop. Coffee shop, ugly feeling, my face bloated or distorted or something through the hallway of my eye. If I brought my will too close to my form, I would dismember the whole thing and leave only a heart or a lung showing some steady rhythm. Ocean rocking against the bowl of the shore. An answer in and of itself. Maybe it’s all that way already anyways. This life just another organ in an organism. Not as fickle as it seems. I don’t know. If I knew, I’d be someone else. Oh well. Heavy body. A leather jacket I’m trying to break in, coarse upon me as I sit, raising my head to try on expression.