S e n d . M e . I n t o . T h e . S k y


Shielded? Protected? The narrow way?
I’ve missed something, and I’m still looking for it.
Every time I think I’ve figured it out, I get another clue that I haven’t.

What is the risk of sharing pain or joy?
Can it be stolen?

Why do we pay with our hearts – this life?
Only to return or not?

Is it not cruel, to spend one’s heart without being taught about
budgets, under and overspending?

Are not bank financiers but simple cash cows, dressed in guileless gills, swimming in oceans of surface doubt, while weighed down in the tears of another’s debt?

Why do the dead float? Forget science. They are weightless, their hearts emptied, and their pockets no longer vibrate from creditor’s phone calls.

The wife, the husband, the child, the lover, the deity, the job, mental and physical health, family, and dare I mention The Dream being placed on slips of paper, all in one bowl, while pretending that each day is not like picking one of them from a hat, and giving attention to what the hand finds fairness in that day. But what of days when the hands are frozen, and can’t unfold the paper, days that drive us to forsake our bodies that we might feed upon the guilt of perceived inadequacy?

All feel it. The Inadequacy.

The sense that though we may give our all, it can never be enough, that ultimately it will make no difference because, like those who gave nothing, our corpse will float down the same damned river. Bloated and forgotten.

This is how I feel in moments of fatalism. Moments when the results of my efforts, when compared to the aim of my goals, is so grossly and consistently misaligned that I want to put holes in the walls with my fists. I want to make flamethrowers of my failures and burn down every structure I see, to wonder in brief awe at anger’s selfish gratifying energy.

In these moments, I question every bit of minutia there is to question because I know that answers are as fake as my inquiry, but without my inquiry, I am as fake as death.

It always passes. The hopelessness. The sense that effort and failure are but one earth taking pride in different continents.

I ask myself to be patient at each arrival, that I don’t set the neighbors home on fire in those instances. I implore myself to set my heart on fire instead, to continue asking the questions I don’t have answers for, to listen to my heartbeat until it gathers the strength to slow down again, back into the acceptable ranges of release from the nations toasted and buttered emergency chain rooms.

I retreat in solitude and speak to that organ as if it’s never played for me before. I ask it to play something worthy of my ovation, something that makes sitting in silence valuable. I tell my heart to fuck the waiting crowd, and to play for me and only me, cause sometimes, the only way to silence the sense of hopelessness, is to hear the song so often that it becomes a compulsion to play it by life.

To fly towards what one can see is not far enough.