Saturday, February 18, 2012

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Little Story    
by Lily   


From particle to hurricane, life is built on the expansion of information. 
From the miniscule to the monstrous, creator and created abstract                                          
A dream within a dream within a dream, one dimension parallels another to define you. 
Graceful hologram with your grieving and seeking, little child with your tear-streaked face turned up to the stars, 
you want to know why everything suffers, you want a hand to hold in the black, black night. 

Listen. There is only one message, but it must be worded exactly for you. 
It will spend your life translating itself to reach you. 

It will conjure heavens, demons, just to catch your eye.

You turn page after page, finding them blank. 



This must be the wrong book. 



The imps surround the castle, the path is overgrown. 
You escape into the garden, a hall of mirrors. 
Clever girl, you outsmarted them, to your detriment.  
Your language is so strange, it would take a masterpiece to touch you now. 
Veiled in layers coiled in serpentine layers
Who could find the words?                                                                                

Now as accidents and hardships chase you around the world, 
you simply keep running from one side of the maze to the other

like a bird trapped in a room, unable to remember the open window.


Little animal, you claimed you wanted God. 
                                        
Now your world is like an electric fence and there is only one direction permitted. 

The voltage increases with each misstep. 

This last cycle you wandered 
far from any shepherds

In some distant rooms a nightmare enclosed you. 
In a red light, you woke to someone dying. 
You held his wrist without a pulse, you had no words to guide him. 

The medics and police and priest and firemen made frantic circles on the ground, 

all of us helpless in the shadow of a rising soul. 

The grieving resonated in the yard, the trees grew crooked wings.
Into the bowl of darkness we threw ourselves.


Little creatures, so confused 
playing games with each other
trading blame while the real work goes undone. 

No one told the spirit how flee. 
No one held the keys or illuminated the gate. 
No one untied the path.

And what if he stays forever in the garden,
folded in time like a boy trapped in a mirror?


If I were to draw you a map, my friend,
a thread that led like a shortcut out of the story 
like a dozen blades slicing through the fabric of space, like parting water, 
like a drill bit through each page of the book itself
I would reach through your ceiling into your reverie
and in a fervent whisper, in a sinister tongue, 
with the threat of horrors unnameable in my range--loud enough to make every fool a believer, 
and every believer the most precious kind of fool,
I'd tell you
Love deeply while you can.


The sea eats the sand, the forests burn. 
Everything vanishes. 
Still this matters. 



I open another book, this one about surrender. 
It's an instruction manual featuring poorly drawn pictures 
of figures rising and reclining in poorly constructed beds
with dusty curtains parted to reveal meager circle moons
this one is a palindrome
and this one is a Russian doll 
with ancient scripts for hair
they all end the same,
with a beginning:




Oh Mother, 
What can I offer you that is worthy of the gift of this world? 

All I ever had was a handful of laughter and fist full of tears. 
When the day unravels and time winks out, 
when I finally return from play in the currents and poppy fields, 

I will bring you the prize of the game-- 
A jewel wrought in the carving wheels of life,
all my dreams and memories captured inside--shining on each surface-- 
its facets the shape of everything I was:
a divine exchange of love and fear 
in every color and combination the raw dust of this universe provides

at play, for you. 

We’ll laugh together at how we did this. 
We'll make up new rules to the game, 
just as we once did, so long ago.
For now, 
if you must hold me by the hair, my head under the water, 
still choking after all these years
how can I resign myself to be the passage and the bridge? 

I want my arms to make a tunnel, the telegraph wires for your disembodied message,

clicking in the dark.