Grumble bee and the Distance of Close
It isn't fair.
All the flowers are taken. All the nectar is spoken for.
I'm a bumble bee bouncing along the prairie grass hoping for an appropriate purchase, a good flower upon to land, with a willing morsel, a warmed footpad, a soothing surface, a couple petals or one, a material shining to the Sun about to be wise like a smile, like yours, like how your smile arrives like a bloom that wasn't supposed to happen. That.
The sun washes. The wind blows. I flap my wings, despite it all.
Too warm for a long visit.
I bump against a window. There's glare and flatness and reflection and an impenetrable surface and yet, despite all that, I tip-click-tip, just so silently, tip-bzzzz-tip, against the slowly-melting silicone of a patient pane of glass. I'm a mindless being that insists despite the dangers and the odds and erosion patterns and the erosion of patterns that chemistry wins.
Insufferable like. My wings form the shape of like and their wake wakes hope. I bleed the color of need. Because bleeding shouldn't be something done alone. That's the essence of our brains. Unlike the animals we don't have to bleed or weep alone. Desire fills all the gaps. More than any figuring we could do at our core we want. Simply want. Crave. Have to have. Hafta have.
Except when want defies the schedule. When it's the shadow of the sun dial.
I'm a creature with wings and a stinger and a silly piece of brain that says, "Keep at it! Go! Don't stop! Try! Try! Try!" The instinct of hope.
The stupid persistence of not quitting. Ever. Not fucking ever.
What other choice is there?
Quitting is what the rest of us does. Do. You get it.
Too many metaphors to make sense of it. Too many thoughts. Too many ways to close the distance. Too many obvious answers and mysterious horrible ways to patch over the chin-hiding moments. Too many goofy whispers to sputter into the side of your face. Too many lovely little sweet nothings to drop off into your brain or into the rare brain like yours. Surfactant shuddering of a face well known for funny. I shudder to think that the dreams I've had lately and the face I've made during them could ever possibly be witnessed by someone caring enough to stay up and watch.
I watch my dreams. I've learned to let them die.
Forgive me my thoughts, for they I cannot control.
Just as you can't, when you close your eyes.
Or when you blink.
And no one is watching.
All the flowers are taken. All the nectar is spoken for.
I'm a bumble bee bouncing along the prairie grass hoping for an appropriate purchase, a good flower upon to land, with a willing morsel, a warmed footpad, a soothing surface, a couple petals or one, a material shining to the Sun about to be wise like a smile, like yours, like how your smile arrives like a bloom that wasn't supposed to happen. That.
The sun washes. The wind blows. I flap my wings, despite it all.
Too warm for a long visit.
I bump against a window. There's glare and flatness and reflection and an impenetrable surface and yet, despite all that, I tip-click-tip, just so silently, tip-bzzzz-tip, against the slowly-melting silicone of a patient pane of glass. I'm a mindless being that insists despite the dangers and the odds and erosion patterns and the erosion of patterns that chemistry wins.
Insufferable like. My wings form the shape of like and their wake wakes hope. I bleed the color of need. Because bleeding shouldn't be something done alone. That's the essence of our brains. Unlike the animals we don't have to bleed or weep alone. Desire fills all the gaps. More than any figuring we could do at our core we want. Simply want. Crave. Have to have. Hafta have.
Except when want defies the schedule. When it's the shadow of the sun dial.
I'm a creature with wings and a stinger and a silly piece of brain that says, "Keep at it! Go! Don't stop! Try! Try! Try!" The instinct of hope.
The stupid persistence of not quitting. Ever. Not fucking ever.
What other choice is there?
Quitting is what the rest of us does. Do. You get it.
Too many metaphors to make sense of it. Too many thoughts. Too many ways to close the distance. Too many obvious answers and mysterious horrible ways to patch over the chin-hiding moments. Too many goofy whispers to sputter into the side of your face. Too many lovely little sweet nothings to drop off into your brain or into the rare brain like yours. Surfactant shuddering of a face well known for funny. I shudder to think that the dreams I've had lately and the face I've made during them could ever possibly be witnessed by someone caring enough to stay up and watch.
I watch my dreams. I've learned to let them die.
Forgive me my thoughts, for they I cannot control.
Just as you can't, when you close your eyes.
Or when you blink.
And no one is watching.
posted by ET @ 12:18 AM
1 Comments
