Do Not Speak

With you, it sure feels nice to have to climb up all of these stairs to get ‘down town.’ We are wading in polluted waters waste deep, waiting as all other whale watchers wait, our heads between our legs as the boat shakes, hear the awful splash carry on created currents, vocalization is valuable, variety of vowels, verbs, voices.

Kick yourself for acting too carefully. passion seemed to quiet down like a city sleeping beneath a creeping avalanche, the residents itching and thrashing about in their beds, dreaming of snakes slithering in their veins, dreaming of paradise, of warm beaches spreading out cobweb towels on the broiling shoreline of blood ocean, of birds teaching you how to mimic them, tropical plumage and the trees that have evolved to match colorful winds and bodies, mimicry, carrying you off in a hammock over the landscape so grey and sterile.

Brash, in those wildly shaken heart monitor moments, like our screaming neighbors sounding like a shaken up snow globe, an enormous omnipotent hand attached to a large, encompassing body and a snickering mouth.

It obviously takes effort. So does climbing through the Andes. Consistent appalachia, common ground, water spider crawls down, through dense river canyons, much poisoned sediment beneath our feet until they turn blue, soaking up cold crawling sensations like the atmosphere does cosmic rays, until the skin is porous and cracked, Death Valley is a hole spun from heaven, here on hallowed earth, exist among ruins of our ancestors, crushed up into a fine powder and snorted in line at the homecoming dance, morphing into a school sanctioned raves, mercedes benz parked out back, the alley way smelled like thai food.

Our eyes became lenses attached to the fragile frames of our faces, fogged up and fading in a downward spiral, away from fences hopped for devious graffiti, barbed wire and razor wire both, within and without, fear multiplies like the children’s children of our greatest historical grandparents. The people and what they did. Interested in those fleeting past elements, fully buried under the tasks at hand, both left and right upturned, waving away clouds to clear up blue skies, feel closer to the elements, of surprise, conflict resolution, the fire inside of a house, a gentle one that burns in slow motion, with a mug of something hot set up right in front, the moments don’t feel the same tension in retrospect, whatever it was is gone now, so is childhood, also those teen years that felt like an alien abduction, very much was life on a different planet, our personality time capsules buried under the muddy sidewalks, baby birds pecking open eggs or

blossoming flowers given a rare wintertime gift of warm nurturing and soft sunlight, warm water and cold water valves on the sink, the perfect ratio is desired, if I were a flower, these human gifts would perhaps allow me temporary forgiveness. Spring is simulated in this interspecies scenario. Found hair in the sink, it was pink and smelled like hyancinth, the blood oath of committed sin and continued plans for future sins, celebrate our collective destinies with happy masks and savage grimaces hidden underneath layers of caramel paint.

This circus of images is keeping me up. It is much too late on a day of reckoning and rest to consider this any kind of a speech on my own. This act of pure creation is dedicated to other late night, awakened dreamers who have found themselves lost in one craft, or another, creating something worthy. Parts of the machine are available around your feet, piece them together like cogs in a chain of bike tires, and then fade out into memory. Something that you had intended to say is slipping off of your tongue back down into your throat. Imagine almost getting it right. Imagine dreaming up the perfect combinations of words to reflect your place on the earth. Remember that thing you wanted to say.

Do not speak.


2 thoughts on “Do Not Speak

  1. theparisreviewblog January 21, 2014 / 10:05 pm

    There are a lot of really eloquent phrases in this piece. The metaphors within really captivate the writing, especially the climbing of the andes. As someone with a literary blog, I admire your style of writing as well as the voice.

    • natejamesanderson January 22, 2014 / 2:23 am

      Thank you for the kind words and the comment. This kind of esoteric writing tends to pour out of me without much forcing, though I am attempting to develop a more consistent voice through these rants. Perhaps it happens naturally, subconsciously, as I mostly write these posts on the fly.

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