Where is it that tomorrow begins? Is it between hours of sleep striking at midnight for a clear road to tomorrow? Is it in the night sky or does it arrive earlier to another place, ahead by hours, where the sun has already risen and treated locals to the secrets of tomorrow. Is tomorrow in borrowed time, loaned without guarantees or requirements to sign on dotted lines?
How do I know, if time has truly passed? Are the wrinkles on my forehead proof and the white hairs on my scalp the truth? Aging in face of mirrors we trust and memories of us. Waking up today as if yesterday was a place on the cusp of history and tomorrows mysteries are finally revealed.
The tree of time and how it grows. Planted as a seed without guarantees of growth and survival, in the face of rivals for replenishing roots, in the forests of youth. Branching for and from experience, growing larger, climbing the ladder of existence reaching for the skies for space to breathe and for better views and news of tomorrow’s unused.
The peaks of time and the defeat of the climb, is tomorrow better for some, for those without retreat and decline? Are we all caught up, brought up by the hands of time? The same passing moments leading up to everything that we created yesterday and look at today as left behind.
There is a darkness inside me. It crawls on my flesh, it stammers through my words, and it echoes between my ears. It is within the sound of color; the sound of a shade covering the cleanest of thoughts and most obscure of whispers. It taints my voice and whatever I know, it hurls splashes of black on the things I own, and it refuses to leave me, wherever I may go.
Fear does not touch the rims of this darkness, and neither does it impede on the freedom that comes with clarity. The darkness is like a touch, and is within a touch, ready to clutch onto my surroundings. It is in the pounding in a headache, it is in the icing on a cake, it is in a stomp of the foot behind me to shake my bones, and it is in a beautiful area within the unknown.
What is this darkness? Upon my skin, on my lips, grown timely like the sharp stubble on my chin.
It is not disease, nor illness, nor an emotion, nor sickness.
Not even my color or tone. It is ingrained in every bone
and it will not leave me
and nor will it grieve me
when I am left for rotten or simply forgotten
when it is only for darkness that I am unknown.
They gave all
only to have all taken away
There they were
as if zero
was a level they couldn’t escape
They had it all
all in all and all it was
Tipping the scales of success
To balance between did and does
They climbed to reach high
Each hello met with a goodbye
They dropped back to low
As if it was as high as they were meant to go
Was zero a pinnacle?
Was one a miracle?
Was their existence merely
for the sake of something cynical?
Any higher they wished to climb
was met with swift recline
At any time they could go back down
To reach as high as possible on human grounds
The barks and laughter sound in the early evening. Howls and thrusts of warm winds scratch upon windows and through the dusty alleys. Darkness creeps over into the star covered sky. The blanket of clouds clear, with nothing but streams of white fog and building rooftops placed between arms and a touch of the stars. The belts and constellations are there to be picked apart by the naked eye for those wishing only to raise their heads.
A somber silence falls and all is quiet. The winds whistle again but there is nothing left to hear. The people have disappeared, the roars have quieted and the breaking spring season has passed into cool, slumberous night. The many have gone as one, vanishing for the evening. The toil of days has passed and work has been set aside for sleep. The midnight snack is a night sky, cut through and divided into pieces of black skyline to form pies of peace.
Where does a world in sleep go? The ticking hands of time stand still. Calm but in quiet motion, the hands of the clock reluctantly inch forward towards morning. The night clutches to the breaking grey dawn, refusing the daylight a gentle entrance. Through the struggle for the horizon unleashes an early emergence of light. A hare stands firm on the damp lawn, discreet as the oncoming dawn. He does not move for minutes, watching, searching, escaping with the hums of sleep and silence. No one wishes to be awoken and rustled, to be as disruptive as the occasional crashing wind, disturbing a state of rest so thin.
The hare does not move. With ears perked, the feet do not spring forward until the first footsteps of the morning have crumpled a path upon the rock filled tracks. Crunching beneath plodding feet, the hare takes slow notice. The statue of the animal comes alive, tumbling away into the shrub, and the sun break awakens those holding onto light blankets and tight sleep. The sequence of hours moves forward.
The blooming spring sings seductive songs through the cracked window. A chirping of sparrows, the dust from gravel scattered asphalt roads, the sparkling of sunshine over the hill extend the arms of spring, putting an end to the cold hands of winter. The months through ice and snowfall are now touched by rare spurts of the coming spring season, so often sparse and erratic through the world. It is a pleasant arrival, flourishing in the presence of light jackets and the disappearance of rugged snow boots.
Seasons are a true experience, awaited patiently one after the other. There is a usually a pursuit of the oncoming season, towards the end of the one passing. Spring is a special touch upon a land so often immersed in all that is cold. It is a rebirth, a spawning, and springing of life across the forests and cities. Seagulls and sparrows, flowers and fauna grow and signal seasonal change through the arrival of warmer life.
The abundance of white scenery across land recedes, giving way to the slow surfacing greens and browns. Walking into the retreating whiteness, the leaves and grass take hold around footing, growing onto feet and eyes like thickened moss until there is a complete change in landscape and the snows are no longer to be found. As clothes grow lighter with passing days, the trees grow thicker and livelier with each sparkling morning. This is the birth of spring, soon to blossom into a full swing of warmer life.
The weather has warmed but the cold hearts remain in scorn.
Torn and replaced with thicker skin, belittled until self defense is but a little thing.
The brittle brings barbarous barbs, with aggression holding together like peas in an unfamiliar pod.
Crushing comparisons to kindness, the mindless shift between spineless and stubborn.
The contagious sunburn of the heated presence of others’ smothers, leaving vulnerabilities uncovered like the letters of past from different lives and lovers.
What it must be, to be cold.
To sell the human soul as a matter of measured stepping stones to gold.
To leap into darker ground, until any humanity is crushed out and pride is but portrayed as matters of sparse, unfitting crowns.
To astound and rip apart, to consider callous smart, yet to stare upon life on earth as a rigid, righteous path.
Let not your skin shiver in the cold enclave of rotten, forgotten livers.
Let them win, purge, submerge heads into thin graves for sake of their own pleasures.
Survival is trivial, is tribal, is libel and is finally without revival.
I am at a table, looking out from the window to the dark rainy streets. The sirens ring on occasion, the yells of the people passing up and down these streets are forever in the air. The neighborhood is a mix of sights and sounds unique to those from climates of quiet and restful night.
The neighborhood breathes life. The homeless, the young professionals and intellectuals, and the older residents all add exceptional flavor to this street laboring for a piece of the pie. I have been here many times but I am always captured by the contrasts in morning mist to the musty weekend air of parties and dinners, and of young revelry. These are the changes that occur though the days and weeks that speak volumes on the diversity of the Mission.
The markets are hosted in an eclectic fashion. They bring the tastes and atmosphere projecting a unique cultural identity. They are different in the face of the same, resistant to the changes occurring when confronting new ways of life.
The Mission is a home to those passing through, coming and going through the years. People will move on while others will move in. Through these migrations, the importance and essence of the mission must always remain true in its openness to all who come through the neighborhood.
A freedom of speech
but with little to say
Trusted words and ways
fail in silent displays
A violence fit for kings
a joy fit for slaves
the only way to save
a calmness fit for graves
When the howling sands settle through wind
and the raised guns
end razing down the thin
What we were may be washed away
but what has not truly won
will only hold together for temporary display