My daughters discuss The Devil I commune with.
How I text my demons on their birthdays to no response.
My latest fixation: how sentience is a curse. Consider the fact we are even able to render fear, grief, despair. Hell is the ability to imagine it. Whatever immanence the trees know doesn’t prevent them from rooting. Whatever pestilence the rats know doesn’t stop them from festering in filth. Faith is supposed to keep us. The imagination has such tenuous work asked of it. But, still “all joy” is tattooed on my left forearm because the Book of James says to consider that when tribulations come our way. Maybe the cost of joy is awareness of the absence of it. When mourning the loss of my siblings (named & unnamed) I hold on to the tragic gift of still being able to honor them. I broke down last weekend thinking about how hard it is to keep up with the increasing inaccessibility to the world. The vaccine cannot cure capitalism. We cannot mask our disdain for entitled threats & disinformation. Yeah, there are some things I want to do (like spit in someone’s son’s mouth) but I want folk to grieve first.
I’m familiar with the protocol of heartbreak. The chaotic bureaucracy of devastation. This off-loading process feels more efficient than before. I am so loved now, empty performance of the act float to the top but never feels the depths of my grace. My bitterness is slight, this time. I can trace my shortcuts around my choreography. Let a bad dancer lead me by the hand in a temporary waltz. I’m familiar with how quickly songs can end. Even a remix has a final note. I’m hearing music again, but it only makes me sad I sing him the tune anymore. I told myself the truth 3 months ago. I never what to believe all that lives in my gut is true. Even if the magic is real, then so is the violence. I’m familiar with absolution. The unfortunate prediction for decisiveness in a world of questions. While slow to consider myself stubborn, I’m caught in the very act. I want to be Sisyphys’ rock. The Hell for some undeserving mortal. If I’m a divine punishment I want to be forever.
I’m still in search of a new routine. I shuffled from one undeserving hand to another & I’ve yet to adjust my clock. The new patterns I’ve tried flop before catching rhythm. I appreciate the pockets of production & promise. Outside of then, I’m disjointed & trembling. I try to tranquilize the unnerving nuisance of never knowing if I’m enough. I imagine most people never question the possibility of being unremarkable. I’m jealous of the unambitious. The patient. The content. I could argue I have too much time on my hands. I need to learn how to keep this ecosystem alive. My irrigation needs an update.
While I wait for more hammers to fall, I still pray for my next lover. I think they’ll be brave in a way I’ve yet to dream. Something unquestionable. All the love that surrounds me now is proud & true. My kids tell the world about me. My students ask for me by name. My friends pay for my food. I’m too familiar with adoration to desire less.