Oh Leonard
Oh Leonard I’m so emotional right now. I’m tumbled and smoothed and polished. I would have
thought I would have gotten fractured and smashed. But I’m better off than I was this morning.
I’m emotional in a good way. I’m full of love and sparks and confidence. And I haven’t even left
the house today. I’m a lazy sweaty shirtless dude who doesn’t give a flying fuck about what
anybody thinks about any of this.
I put my heart out on the telephone line and it came back stronger. It might have come back all
bruised and cut or it might not have even come back at all but here it is. Back safe and sound
and beating strong in my hairy curly box of a chest. I’m sitting here above my chest looking
down at my veiny hands on the keyboard with the grey chest hairs at the bottom of my
peripheral vision. Proud of my heart right now. I know that won’t last but it feels good.
All is not right. But enough is right to tip the scales towards the good side of the spirit. The
ghost is smiling.
Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Is this what it’s like to live without existential conflict in
my soul? Is this how adults move through life? Well not all adults but the adults I look up to.
The ones who seem to have it figured out. Even if they think they don’t. But they do. I can see
through the spackle and the paint and the smiles. I can tell they’re happy. Like deep happy.
Happy and secure. They put their hearts out there and they came back stronger.
They’ve all been tumbled and beaten but didn’t break and fall apart. Not all the way apart.
Fractured, yeah, but who isn’t fractured? Complete. Not all the way complete, but complete in
the ways that matter the most. Yes there are always cracks. Just like Leonard said, that’s how
the light gets in. Let the cracks show. Let the weaknesses shine through. Let my heart swim free
in the rough ocean and trust that it will come back home to nest in this hairy curly deserving
chest.
Oh my god in this moment I want to float away with a dear love and never come back. I want to
open up to a beautiful soul and sink down beneath the waves with her in my arms. I want to
melt with love and stay in this moment with slow morphine pumping through my body making
everything feel perfect.
But now is the time to pick myself up and put my boots on and start beating feet towards the
goals I have named. It is not the time to turn to liquid. It is the time for solid movements and
rigid decisions.
I will find her. There will be time to melt. I will melt again.
thought I would have gotten fractured and smashed. But I’m better off than I was this morning.
I’m emotional in a good way. I’m full of love and sparks and confidence. And I haven’t even left
the house today. I’m a lazy sweaty shirtless dude who doesn’t give a flying fuck about what
anybody thinks about any of this.
I put my heart out on the telephone line and it came back stronger. It might have come back all
bruised and cut or it might not have even come back at all but here it is. Back safe and sound
and beating strong in my hairy curly box of a chest. I’m sitting here above my chest looking
down at my veiny hands on the keyboard with the grey chest hairs at the bottom of my
peripheral vision. Proud of my heart right now. I know that won’t last but it feels good.
All is not right. But enough is right to tip the scales towards the good side of the spirit. The
ghost is smiling.
Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Is this what it’s like to live without existential conflict in
my soul? Is this how adults move through life? Well not all adults but the adults I look up to.
The ones who seem to have it figured out. Even if they think they don’t. But they do. I can see
through the spackle and the paint and the smiles. I can tell they’re happy. Like deep happy.
Happy and secure. They put their hearts out there and they came back stronger.
They’ve all been tumbled and beaten but didn’t break and fall apart. Not all the way apart.
Fractured, yeah, but who isn’t fractured? Complete. Not all the way complete, but complete in
the ways that matter the most. Yes there are always cracks. Just like Leonard said, that’s how
the light gets in. Let the cracks show. Let the weaknesses shine through. Let my heart swim free
in the rough ocean and trust that it will come back home to nest in this hairy curly deserving
chest.
Oh my god in this moment I want to float away with a dear love and never come back. I want to
open up to a beautiful soul and sink down beneath the waves with her in my arms. I want to
melt with love and stay in this moment with slow morphine pumping through my body making
everything feel perfect.
But now is the time to pick myself up and put my boots on and start beating feet towards the
goals I have named. It is not the time to turn to liquid. It is the time for solid movements and
rigid decisions.
I will find her. There will be time to melt. I will melt again.
“The Dove”
I am indecisive. Which more often than not just hurts myself. Accidental self-denial. Accidental
self-doubt. Accidental shooting myself in the dick. Because I should know better. But I don’t. I
don’t know whether to pull the trigger. When to pull the trigger. Why to pull the trigger.
She was the dove always perched upon the sill. Always. Familiar comfort and deep roots
entangled, pulling at each other through the red rubbery fragile clay. Arm wrestling in slow
motion with a thousand tendrils.
She’s back there now. Back before yesterday and the day before that. The roots aren’t fighting
each other anymore. They are growing in different directions now. The roots miss the touch, the
warmth, the intimacy of the battle.
I pulled the trigger. Brought peace to the subterranean battlefield. A sad lonely empty peace.
The dove remains. The dove is not hiding. The dove is still driving to work and working in her
garden and walking the dog. The dove is dancing and meeting new people and taking new lovers.
The dove will smell different the next time we meet.
So will I.
I’m afraid to pull the trigger again. I worry of damaging my roots further. Tearing the fibers.
Rendering them useless. Fear seeps in through the torn pores. The taste of blood in my mouth.
The buzzing of flies around my ankles. The stench of my tight puckered dirty asshole.
I breathe. I breathe and I wait and I keep on keeping on. And the world will happen if I never
make another decision and then I will not be to blame. I will be the guy who got shit upon
through no fault of my own. An innocent bystander on the shoulder of the highway. A victim of
random heartless violence.
But that’s not true and I know it. I can be more than a victim. I have the power to move things
and create a new universe. I just need to flip that switch, dial it up, pull that trigger.
I need to kill. I need to be able to kill. To take the life of another being without hesitation.
Without concern. Without indecisiveness.
Blood-soaked success smells like money in my mouth. Happiness with the taste of murder.
Disciplined deadly joyfulness.
I am a corporation. I am an organization with different levels. Managers managers and more
managers. Lovers and artists and bankers and insurance agents and fighters and killers. Layers
upon layers of complexity. I am the president. I can fire any of those motherfuckers I wanna.
Except for the dove.
I am indecisive. Which more often than not just hurts myself. Accidental self-denial. Accidental
self-doubt. Accidental shooting myself in the dick. Because I should know better. But I don’t. I
don’t know whether to pull the trigger. When to pull the trigger. Why to pull the trigger.
She was the dove always perched upon the sill. Always. Familiar comfort and deep roots
entangled, pulling at each other through the red rubbery fragile clay. Arm wrestling in slow
motion with a thousand tendrils.
She’s back there now. Back before yesterday and the day before that. The roots aren’t fighting
each other anymore. They are growing in different directions now. The roots miss the touch, the
warmth, the intimacy of the battle.
I pulled the trigger. Brought peace to the subterranean battlefield. A sad lonely empty peace.
The dove remains. The dove is not hiding. The dove is still driving to work and working in her
garden and walking the dog. The dove is dancing and meeting new people and taking new lovers.
The dove will smell different the next time we meet.
So will I.
I’m afraid to pull the trigger again. I worry of damaging my roots further. Tearing the fibers.
Rendering them useless. Fear seeps in through the torn pores. The taste of blood in my mouth.
The buzzing of flies around my ankles. The stench of my tight puckered dirty asshole.
I breathe. I breathe and I wait and I keep on keeping on. And the world will happen if I never
make another decision and then I will not be to blame. I will be the guy who got shit upon
through no fault of my own. An innocent bystander on the shoulder of the highway. A victim of
random heartless violence.
But that’s not true and I know it. I can be more than a victim. I have the power to move things
and create a new universe. I just need to flip that switch, dial it up, pull that trigger.
I need to kill. I need to be able to kill. To take the life of another being without hesitation.
Without concern. Without indecisiveness.
Blood-soaked success smells like money in my mouth. Happiness with the taste of murder.
Disciplined deadly joyfulness.
I am a corporation. I am an organization with different levels. Managers managers and more
managers. Lovers and artists and bankers and insurance agents and fighters and killers. Layers
upon layers of complexity. I am the president. I can fire any of those motherfuckers I wanna.
Except for the dove.
