Profound ≠ Antilost
A Manifesto For Keyless Citizens Of All Times & Places
In Other Words, Look! Here! Now!
This is not a hunt for metaphorical keys or other euphemisms for answers (self-generating lightning-breeding uncontainables). In other words, even though you are lost on Macon street in the morning, the birds are singing opera in the trees & you (as in not you the brain, the "i", but you, the muscles, the bones) understand every interval within each melody, its beauty & space & reason for being. You don't need our keys (or other euphemisms for help). You are a self-generating lightning-breeding uncontainable. & my friends have lost their way. You keep going so not to crack. You may grown worn but (for sure) you'll grow.
We move always one foot in front of the other. What other choice do we have, with mother uncertain & us in her womb? Tied. Tethered. Mummies wrapped in umbilical cords. One foot in the grave. Another in the sea (or other euphemisms for amniotic fluid). Her anxieties give us ADD (abbreviation for whatever you wish, these words are your mad libs). So counteract. We are our own person. The child is never the mother's, never hers. We (words worths) all know what Wordsworth (we, you, i) said (The child is father to the man). So we fling her keys into the gutter & walk on, vagabonds, keyless.
Through the next door, we are in love. Here is Ania naked in the morning, 11 years our senior, the sun & blinds striping her bare skin. These are our fingers drawing chicken bones on her palm. This is her in the window, wrapped in a white sheet. Here we metamorphosize our perceptions. She becomes a stone goddess. She is all women in all songs. We become pure light. We are the artists cornered by the muse. Our perceptions shift according to desire. Yet here is the wedding ring that she didn't want. So we fling her keys into the gutter & walk on, vagabond, keyless.
Here our invitation to throw away those keys. After all, they only fit one lock. So here we wait slackjawed, outlawed & wandering nearby towns with guitars on our backs, the songs still in our bones. We fade into the background while others smile at the spaces surrounding us yet never look in our eyes. All poverty camoflauges. We howl in the alleys amidst a timeline that reflexes, retorts but never relinquishes the spaces around us. We wish for just one bastion of goodwill patyourneighborontheback yousahumantoo recognition. We seek escape but claim always to be moving toward something more spectacular. Again we seek spaces in which we feel useful. But here we become unearthed. We wander the drainpipes, rooftops, monkeyswing on cloudbranches. This is us letting go (or other euphemisms for cracking).
The corporate cleaver hacks at your back, forced by the hands of your father (explanation, not blame). These are your vertebras shying away from taxes multiplexes housepayments alimony swimmingpools dowreports & carinsurance. This is your father's anxiety at your lack of upward mobility (or other euphemisms for The American Dream). But this is your heartache, your existential crisis. These are your hands, palms held upward catching rain, keyless.
Neither deus ex machina nor skeleton keys. Neither blue fairies nor kind witches. But you no longer know it's never time to sit and wait. Please don't be long or I may be asleep.