Wind swept condition, mind and mouth. Exacerbated and tantilized to a numbing place. The face is a blur of colours and this body is just a stand in, the smoked spirit of it floating in another dimension just out of reach, soothsaying in screeches. The hum drum of the heavenly body-slicer shingshanging just a pulse away from the artery, gives the out of bodied, finally, a giggle that embeds itself, is a glitching and shaking raspberry. The tummy of a newborn, soft and slippery, under the beach wave, over our homes and wicker basket walls, where there is a tsunami, called the namesake of the new birthed sun child, the mother's mother.
Even a mind is a box and even a mouth speaks in the shape of keys that rust over in the histories it hides in the boxes attached to other mouths, and every one trapped with an echo, evolutionizing old photos and grandmother's basement-found basmati rice remnants, old gold jewelry from before the raids on our soily bodies, before the british. The tides of time and speech and thought, that is the console of the organ, into an echo chamber.
Why can't we have consolation prizes for children who will never win a contest that is already over and unwon? Do we let them sob over their ice cream sundays on tuesday nights on the dining table, sat on it glass and reflecting, teardrops on the interface of a humanity that will dry up eventually, a loose mirroring of skin and flesh that shows us who we are, ugly, when we are individualized. That is what losing does, where the win is the identifier of the happy few, like monopolies and capitalism, loss sepulchures sweet and sensational undoing, peculiarizes each of the losing the mass and greys all of its faces, dusts over youngness with its own ashy elbows, and lays it down to rest. On impermanent reflections, fathers sat on the couch watching cricket. "On your feet, kid. Time for bed. It's no big deal, you'll get 'em next time." But there are only bananas in the ice cream and the bowl is a gapping wicker basket. A tummy becomes a stomach and it doesn't deserve blowing kisses aside from the tsunami winds hitting when, one day, the oldening child, wrinkling baby, balances one toe at the edge of a precipice, welcoming the wind, knowing too well to balance. The heart is a crushing organ. Maybe it wouldn't be if we wrapped it in red ribbon.
My love, the city in the sky is an old, old storm and the stakes in our eyes should have been the things to tell us to fly to it, each of this earth locked arm in arm, and petrify it to the ends of the ever expanding universe together. If there is a god, perhaps the rebuke of his children is enough to make him disappear. Maybe he will carb load and pastafarian himself into faceless unrecognition and feel what it is like to lose mobility at the young age of four. Point seven billion years old, his body on a cloud weighted with caloric sweat and tomato sweeteners like the drunkenness of a pastor of the blood he needs to get through sermon, the blood I need to finish writing half the time. I wonder if then, the rain will be red. If I can be then unashamed of bleeding. Would then, our wicker basket houses learn themselves to float, would we have to train them like dogs? Would we begin to eat our pets, eat each other? Would the wind we beg to push us over when our impression of a god has given us unfair and an untrue feeling of being centered and watched, allow us to lose, and will the blackness be our consolation prize when we realize, falling off the precipice and watching the core of the earth hotly unfold and mesh with our skinny bloody ashy bones, that being alive could mean learning to train our world to kiss our stomachs and put raspberries in our ice cream? I am not sure, and neither are you. In that way, perhaps we are the winners.
