Trusty Boulder

Everything I love and hope for I take my mental boulder to it. A respectable rock. The size of two fists.

If I position properly, clamp down the ideal or thought or hope and against the cliff, and I put all my weight into slamming it, the contact dissipates my angst; the flash of smoke and mist confirms it. It never was there.

I drag everything I would’ve loved, and off to the cliff. To discover the same: the smoke smells of star & mint. In the induced frenzy deafness nothing breaks through this determinism, such sanction, some directive surely and divine comedy. Crouched over and tears nitric frozen by the tremble I sometimes slam the boulder into thigh, to make sure it’s not all smoke. Once more fountains so ruddish, trickled in residual bruisings, assures you’re still in bone.

While I flinch from the reverb and my hands make paste of the dirt, veins clenched, before limp, I take in the mess I make, of the patches of grass and dirt and weed slightly torn. Nothing more. It’s a revelation, it’s factual as can be: it’s nothing, and never was.

I’ll take your praises and by mere grasp it sieves through hand. As a magic trick, and by the criticisms they’re already trailing, lifting toward the horizon. Danced about the clouds, and of the rest, on occasion, my trusty boulder spares the process. Imbibe enough and the smoke wraps about my fingers, mouth, sure to linger whatever step took. Radiated skin up toward the sun’s rays and plumes out from your smile, eyes.

I know whatever I love will leave me, enslave me. So let me float serenely in the graveyard of everything I thought had me. Though I know it’s antithetical, this self-imposed valley of death, well, it keeps working.

My indifference is benevolence; anything that threatens it shall proceed to the same dumping grounds as all certain figments. Only to merge into the same soot.

Out touring the coast looking over I see a boulder bunch, and I’ll call it a family. A family calm between waves thrashing. Some rocky jag of circle fissure and Oregon. Perhaps the only thing such family will consume, as the Cycles end, is my worn body.

But perhaps, before then, I won’t have the same body. For the next thousand years I’ll finally reach out through our Metaphysic fog and drift between, reconfigure my face and apparel for each oncoming era. A mere observer.

You’re welcome to come follow. Find your trusty boulder, rock if it’s too much.

Pick it up. If you want.

Try it on me.

Let’s find your trusty spot.