Rubber Band, #141

Wrapped on my hand,
rubber band, meant
to subdue the tactile
longing, the desire
built up in my empty
stomach, the constant
breach of a circle
that exists and wraps
space and time
in a stagnant downhill
spiral, that shifts
our sour breath across
the semipermeable
membranes. Skin
of my taut skin
pulled between
myself, the dirt
and the gods
I pray to. Listen
father time
and mother earth,
kin of my kindreds,
listen to the great
long cursing
of our existence,
that we should
be forced to live,
or at least forced
to survive alone
at such a great
distance, separate
from the teat, back
from the very energy
that gave us birth,
which pushed us up
from the leaves
and the mud.

We must admit
we may have, along
the way somewhere,
forgot the brush
that dipped itself
in the inky blank ,
in the oil and acrylics,
the finger paint
of soil, drew
a shadow cross
the long swordline
of light, the great
flare of the sun
and cooling earth
with the same brush.

We, who the shadow
reflects, the saddest
of truths, the true
awful tears that fall,
knowing no matter
what breadth, what
width we are willing
to traverse, what religion
or practice or proof,
what love we may
discover, the gap
is too great to cross,
the bridge too long,
and my paragon,
my parents, the god
of my gods
shall always live
cross this uncrossable
desert. Separate.

So call me lazy,
call me cynic.
Let me eat cake
and guess, lament
the sad and lonely
light that glimmers
off in the distance,
the night full of stars
and planets that peek,
and ignite an inkling
of remembrance.

Let me be
like a little kid,
singing: twinkle,
twinkle little star,
cast me off, away
too far. Leave me
at a loss. Let me be
sad for my losses.
But fear not, do not
shiver, for the gods,
being gods, would
not abandon you,
maddened mystic,
small child. The gods
can reach across
time to the forest.

The creator, a splatter
of paint flung off
from the factories
onto the ground
in front of my feet.

Rubber band, wrapped,
one on each wrist,
and none paid for,
made by infant
anonymous children,
in small anonymous
countries with no
analogous origin,
no company logo,
laid down for me
as a wish, an answer
to a prayer, when
I asked the creator,
mother earth
and father time,
to find a way to tell
me, let me know
I am not simply
the residual rubber
waste of some old
spent factory,
churning out rejects
that offer no nudge
to the economy.

These are my gods,
or at least my
imaginary gods,
saying we should
stay together,
be held together,
come closer
and move farther away,
but stretch to touch
each other, across
a chasm of artificial,
manufactured, cold
and undead air, food,
space, existence.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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