Tangled together in clustered chaos, rising from the soil.
No bark alike. No height specific. No two seeds the same.
Are we so different from the natural world, I ask?
Tangled together in clustered chaos, rising from the bed.
No skin alike. No gender specific. No two wombs the same.
Are they so different from us, I ask?
The answer cannot be sung. The answer cannot be heard. The answer cannot be praised.
The answer shows itself every so often, in between the tangled clustered chaos, where only the silent can see, where only the silent remain.
While the money drains from my pockets like a busted water main I can’t help but wonder—has our existence really boiled down to name badges and paychecks, fedora’s and chino’s, tax breaks and debt? It’s no wonder the streets are filled with broken bodies.
It’s no wonder the idea of the “weekend” has begun to depress me. This invisible structure, unspoken, yet accepted continues to devour our living, chewing us like cud, and then spitting us out to white sheets where we can’t even reach the bedpan without assistance.
A weekend ago I was eating brunch in The Village, drinking a Bloody Mary, eating eggs Benedict, and writing a letter to a friend when I noticed two men noticing me. They asked if I was a writer—each in their 50’s debating women over Mimosa’s—to which I told them I was just going through the motions of my 20’s. They both smiled, shared a laugh of remembrance, and went back to arguing. If I was smart I’d play the game, perhaps try to sell myself even. One day I thought, but for now, I’m an artist stuck in his artist ways, trying his best not to care that he can’t afford the eggs, the rent, or brunch in The Village for that matter.