Home > Poetry, prose poem > gospel from a red-handed religion

gospel from a red-handed religion

 

There is something about crumpled sheets, getting lost in the sea-tossed moments just before waking up. Swimming in that lullaby of a half-rocked consciousness, lying there, suspended between being and not being. That kind of quiet is rare and never useless.

There is something about pretending the house is on fire – quick, what would you take? What would you be glad to leave behind? Now, pretend your life is that house, ablaze. Who would you love, and who would you leave behind? Tell me: how do the ashes taste? Tell me who you would let burn.

There is something about a kiss – in a car – stranded on the side of the highway. Suddenly, the traffic doesn’t matter. Suddenly, there is no traffic. The world is made of stardust, and your heart is full of night. The wind is dancing in your smile. That kind of kiss stops time, tears the world from its hinges, and does not look back.

There is something about pretending that you have permission to say everything you never thought you could – quick, what would you say? Burn off the silence like your courage is gasoline meeting a lit match. Do not be afraid of smoke. Smoke means change, metamorphosis, exchanging one use for another. Tell me: what word do you have for freedom? How do you conjugate love? Is desire hopelessly made of adverbs?

There is something about learning to run. This is not a time for stillness. This is not a time to collect a river. This is a moment made of rapids, a current of colors, a perfect place to get lost. This is the only way to find yourself. That is, let go. That is, let it out. That is, let. You are the future tense. Your dog-eared past doesn’t dictate your next paragraph.

The house is on fire. Move your feet. Retrieve your heart from the icebox. Do not save such things for later. Later is this minute, passing. Later is a lie you keep telling, one that’s never worked before. The house is on fire. You either get lost in the flames, or you run.

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Categories: Poetry, prose poem
  1. July 30, 2013 at 6:39 pm

    “There is something about pretending the house is on fire – quick, what would you take? What would you be glad to leave behind? Now, pretend your life is that house, ablaze.”

    WOW that’s a powerful visual. Love!

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