Posts Tagged ‘a modern soliloquy’

All that love does is from because.

Because of love, because, because.

Because we met in the library.
Because I secretly fell in love with your stunningly gorgeous mind.
Because I am never sure what you are going to say next.

Because it is always honest.

Because you were my first confidant.

Because you love Shakespeare almost as much as I do.
Because I told you I loved you that afternoon in the park.
Because you told me you were honored by that.

Because we kissed in the motor home.
Because we got married at the church.
Because we lost the baby, and had the little girls.

Because you love the girls.

Because I love the girls.

Because we lived through brain damage, learning disability, heartbreak, surgery, the loss of friends, the loss of jobs, the recession and then … the divine provision.

Because we will always have that, and because you are strong, I will always love you.
Because we lived through that and didn’t quit and traveled the world together anyway.
Because our love grew old, and safe and calm.

Because we still sleep with our arms around each other.

Because you take my hand.

Because you kiss my lips.

Because you still tell me I am wrong when I am wrong.

Because you love me.

Love, love, love.

Because, because, because.

Because of love.

We love because.

Advertisements

Speak up more, not less, using your own ideo-vocalized mess.

Soliloquy  — in front of yourself and everyone else-a-melse.

Monologue, dog!

You and I can flip-flop nonstop lolly pop but that gets trite fast and then we just so need to speak our favor-ite verbo-bite.

Bebop, hiphop, tipitity-top, slop-a-pop.

Ski-ba-bop-ba-bop-voc; do that thang nonstop.

Be-cause …

We have been flattened by the road-grade blade of the prepaid lexicographers.

We have been run over by the top-botched, pop-a-voc.

We have suffered weak-a-squeak.

We have sold out for safety and we have shut up way too much because we thought we were stuck-a-muck with duck and cluck.

Nope! Fess; you’ve got that vocable mess!

Unperson; you’ll worsen, but word-dive and jivity jive and you’ll revive.

See!

Be inventy.

Sync with your blink.

Que with your you and do-ba-de-do!

in the singing place I saw the most battered hearts of my generation

sprung free from madness

by starving half-naked angels

and a bloody fix

they knew then that they didn’t have to do anything else

to prove to anyone else in the universe that they should be loved

they stopped PTSDing

and allowed themselves to be covered over with the clean white e-paper of

tripple-affirmation

they rose up in the supernatural darkness

to copy the syntax

of the ultimate request

they bent down with fearful symmetry and railed against moloch

resisting much

obeying much

they tragicocated against all skin-oppression

class-injustice

and schemified-violence

overtaken with sudden loves

they dreamed of adorations and illuminations

containing multitudes of the oppressed

they fell down before the throne of the tyger and the lamb

oh, you, you you, you beautiful, gorgeous dredged-up-wrecks,

I am with you, you re-made hearts, your best-hammered minds

I am with you in your imperfectications and in your insecuritudes,

I am with you in your nightly brokenry and your daily hallucinations,

I am with you in San Francisco, in Rome, in Beijing, in Johannesburg, in Mumbai and in Managua

as you walk dripping with alien goodness

out of a bright river into a numinous redempticon

Someone once said to me, “It’s the little things that drive you crazy!”

It’s not.

It’s the little things that drive you sane — pills, pats and pets.

All praise for what is small: dollops and gobs and dabs, the edges of pie crusts, chocolate shavings.

Hail micro-sacredness of life, tiny flotsam and mini-jetsam — veins, mists, creeks, fogs.

Is it not life’s micro-detail, womp and woof of wondrous world, that moves us to gratitude?

Drops, pinches, dashes, rain, cinnamon, lotion; fermions, flounces, hadrons, hats, bosons, bacon bits, antiquarks — there is a breath-taking thereness in the smallest things.

And then at last there is the weight and force of slivered, severed time.

The massive power of one, tiny, single “was.”

The mighty microsity of one “will be.”

And the astonishing force of this quickly, quarky, snarky second’s “is.”

Stop talking please.

Okay, gush a little more if you must — then hush. Going on too long makes the speech so very wrong.

Don’t you know that there is a time, between one set of words and another, when what happens only happens during silence?

Haven’t you, in the whomp and whoosh of wave-washed life, put on diving gear and dropped down into a sea of enforced quiet, sunk down within the deep walls of one of your own psyche’s submarine canyons and seen beautiful, quiet, coraline thoughts growing there?

And then, haven’t you, in wise and decompressive mode, surfaced — nicely aphonic. Remember that, the deep water, deep sea, depthy quiet, the next time you decide to send out a boat load of your verbal ware. Pause, then, and sail, softly on the quiet side of care.

We’ve too much practiced talk and squawk. Prattle, prattle, rock and rattle; tattle, tattle — it’s a custody battle. Hoarse, hoarse, remorse, remorse; of course, of course it’s a screamin’ divorce!

Prolix, bollixed.

Wind bags and wanton tongues yell and deafen the whole world.

Wise rags muff and fluff and heal with salves of quietness.

.