The swaths of sky above crisscross in a babble of breathy scars
I see more than chemtrails though…
I try to imagine the people up there in the winged bullet
making its way across the sky
their feet dangling in mid air
save for a foot or so of wires and baggage and metal.
From this perspective, looking up, it’s barely comprehensible
that people are really up there at all.
When I think about it,
anxiousness and excitement both feel the same
The same pit of my stomach startled wings
A choice of persuasion then?
My choice what to make of it?
Perhaps ‘being lost’ and ‘being free’ are similar
the same choice of persuasion of this or that.
I’m not talking about real loss
The punch in the stomach that takes my breath away,
but the weightless existential can’t find my shoes
want to sleep all day being lost
translating into the realms of flesh.
Aren’t both ‘being lost’ and ‘being free’
a casting off from the perceived familiar?
Being pushed off or pushing off
from a finely honed routine of nomenclature
that causes a shift in my internal gravity?
Are they so different?
I stand in the middle of either …. lost or found
Even while recognizing the breath of this feeling though,
my feet want to touch the ground
whether covered by moss, or sidewalk, or water.
Pragmatic, I want intimacy to have a face, a hand, a leaf, a claw
and be swayed by ideas or feelings
that have grown from some shared fertile ground.
It’s simpler to pick them up and put them to use
to make something, to hold, to do.
Even if it is simply making dinner, holding my grandson’s hand,
or doing nothing at all.
Painting and poem by j.h.white