Poems. Two.

Last night was leftovers in bed and falling asleep to a playlist of affirmations on youtube, hoping that prepping tomorrow with positive focus would plant a seed in the heart of this anxious meat suite, meant to protect my bones from chattering too loudly (thin walls in tenement housing, life in the big city and such).

I think there is an in inherent restlessness in seeking honest. In more nuanced story, higher resolution, more filled in. Everywhere there is distraction, but if thats where we are then, ~ we are here now ~

After all these years, in this same meat suit, I am still nervous at night for the following day. Before I’ve even arrived. I have no projected breath, no essential wisdom to keep me from shaking. So I do the honest thing. I stand and shake. Brush my teeth and shake. Wait for the bus and shake. Eat my lunch and shake. Write my emails and shake. Feel my breath and shake.

Still too thin skinned for the words “dealbreaker”, “I don’t” and “divorce”. unable to digest them, I spit them up and get back to what I know well, my puzzles, my laboratory. I stare at the scattered pieces and repeat my mantra, “tell a new story, tell a new story, tell a new story”

Surely there is an equation to remove that pit from the lover’s stomach. One turn of phrase to evaporate those million tons. In that way, I am a scientist, in that way, I am working tirelessly for the cure.

To be open. Bold. To carry the fruits of my labor back down the mountain, my arms overflowing with creation, and, laying down my work on a blanket, say, “a story from your life for a work of art”, when you ask how much, and feel serene certainty in that stock. These are dreams I have.

Because the truth is that the logic of the heart trumps predictable seasons

Because the heart wins every time and I don’t even know why that is.

Hope LittwinComment