Refusing to be Finished

Deep down inside I gurgle with the primordial stew, with fragments of life, small strands floating in ether or essence, spirella that drift and twitch blindly, occasionally bumping into each other and fusing, merging, creating new forks and strands and tendrils.

Deep down inside I foment with the churn of the worlds, of all the winds and waters, the humors and the chaff, swirling and kneading until from the mouth of the cave, where form or substance spew forth. Sometimes beauteous, sometimes terrifying, sometimes ephemeral as smoke wisps or dust lifted by an updraft to scatter across the waters below.

Deep down inside I love with the oily softness of lambswool, earthy and pungent, nomads laying pelt tarps in the bottom of their tents, open to travellers and wanderers, magicians and magi.

Deep down inside I rest with the peace of the waters come to stillness from the rocking of the earth, still not just without movement or cessation of life, but still as pregnancy, still as the fullness and saturation of the circle of ink that makes for a full stop.

Deep down inside I breathe with the accordion fan, in and out, in and out, bellows blowing sparks into life, music and sounds of instruments and earth.

Deep down inside I wonder what is the next step, what is the path the rivulet will take around rock and jagged bend, over flat cliff face, merging into marsh, feeding cattails and swampgrass that blow and blow and bow in the wind.

Deep down inside I move supple as a leaf, heavy as a buffalo, wise as a whale that floats and waits, so large and so small in the vast connected waterways of discovery.

Deep down inside I sink, deeper and deeper, below the surface of mind and thought, below the objects that move around in the schedule of my life—childhood, youth, the wanderer, the finder, the taught and the teacher—now teens sit with eyes full of expectancy and excitement, of feigned boredom and drive, ready to take life by the horns and wrestle it not because life needs wrestling but because that is what the essence of youth likes to do.

Deep down inside I sink in the midst of a sentence that refuses to be finished

~AE 2015