THE THREAD | You begin walking slowly in reverse

REVOLUTION

Unnoticed by most folks when the walk light turns green,
you roll the ball of you left foot back off the curb
and begin walking slowly in reverse.
 
People on the sidewalk part like the sea. You face the wake
and drop the small machines jammed into your ears.
They fall away. Still walking in reverse, you finally hear.
 
The walkers talk without ceasing as they pass, syntax
broken, absent of aim. You vow silence, relinquishing
language, and watch them talk their way onward to nowhere.
 
At the edge of the city now it is all taste and sight,
the crackled feel of forest floor. You toss your hammer
on a bed of leaves. Your book of matches lands in a puddle.
 
At the edge of the sea you take one final breath,
fall backward, land soft, held in a way that does not hold.
Sinking, you recall a breathing that does not breathe.
 
From below, your eyes see the rippling surface. Liminal at first,
then becomes firmament growing farther away.
Waves refracting the final sight of galaxies going dim.
 
Light grows dull, all returning returned, and the saltwater blood
baptizes inside out. Compression. First gasp of birth again.
Welcome home, blind rhythm of womb.

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What I'm reading: Marylinne Robinson's Absence of Mind: The Dispelling of Inwardness from the Modern Myth of Self
What I'm listening to: Wallflowers, Better Than Ezra, Fugees, Ben Folds Five, Smashing Pumpkins, Jamiroquoi, etc., etc., etc.
 

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IF YOU'RE IN KC NEXT WEEKEND, COME PARTY LIKE IT'S 1996!

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Peace,

Andrew