Adam's Garden

his eyes on fire, with hands awakened by the thunderbolt.  i was sitting quietly at the desk when the time arose to hear the secrets i was forgetting.  i was not amused or delighted.  i was taken far from myself.  i had only eyes and ears and the occasional loss of sensation, but i was there.  i was there just like everybody else.  nobody had me pegged.  i was the different sensational one.  the one with the light shining bright into the darkness with torches and face paint and the agony of motion sickness.  i was as tired then as i am now.  sleepy like a baby.

the asphalt sneakers blending slowly towards the finish line, legs extended always outwards, never caring or complaining.  the whiskers of yesterday holding fast to the memories of myself.  i am fierce i say.  i am fierce and strong.

i am not allowing the world to breathe anymore.  i create and subdue the armies of opposition.  i am the fearless oppressor of the weak.  the gigantic monolith that pervades my lungs, expecting sunshine and further along the inspired catacombs of youth.

each light more curious and wellspoken.  i sit alone with the lights overhead, the glaring eyes of passers, the lightless rooms of my past still overwhelming the shoulders and knees of the present.

i sit in the chair and breathe silently.  the ways and means of my profound obligation to the clouds still holding my hands down to my waist.  the listless agony of the working poor.  the loud laughter of the drunks.  the miserly compliments of the shrew.

the fortuitous and brave souls of the present are left alone they say.  they say that in time these common men were understood to be uncommon.  that the world eventually changed and these heroes were appreciated appropriately.

i am not a harbinger of good or bad news.  i sit quietly, hands over the table, where my master can see without compromise.  i read the reports and relay the messages.  i get compliments and i smile sincerely.  i do not hate you.

i just dont understand.

hey.  yeah you.  what are doing?  reading?  cool.  i am writing to the future then, because as i write these words, you are asleep.  when you read them i will be in the library studying for my final exam.

yeah.  pretty weird how time can move around like that.  i mean, all those years that have passed and i cant remember why or where or when or anything at all.

i kiss gently because i try to slow time down.  if i move too fast, i wont remember where ive been.  i want to remember kissing you.  well, hope you are in your room or somewhere warm.  cool.

im in my room, writing this post you will read tomorrow i guess.

love you.

as i carry onward, disabling my heart and wounding my feet, i stick lightly to the words of my ancestors, their voices carrying me forward into the land of milk and honey.

i am stranded here, left among the tragic circumstance of the self-styled characters of modern times.  the eyes are glaring and glossing and i can no longer claim that the poem and song contains the promise of my own gargantuan delight.

i was wondering recently about paris, and the snow and smog of the afternoon breeze.  the bells banging on my fingers and my fingers banging on the gentle ivory of a sad bar.  i was told to be still and escape myself through transcendence.  i am marked by the bastardly endeavors of my fellow patriots.  i watch angrily as the stylized promise of freedom is controlled by the bigotry and greed of our oldest immigrants.

once upon a time, i wrote michael dukakis a letter.  george bush had recently won the presidency and i was hurt.  i was five years old.  i told him that mr. bush was nothing more than a big baby.  he wrote me back saying that if only the voting age were lower, maybe he had a shot.

these days, my fellow patriots are dying.  the real estate is expensive, the credit is unmanageable, and the promises are shallow.  people will say anything it seems.

some of us more interested in words and literation are disappointed by the tragic impossibility of integrity in these most frightening of times.  intelligent and kind minds are despondent and apathetic.  the technology of modernity rewards the vain and delusional pursuit of power among the more advantaged.

once upon a time, people would buy property and kill scores of innocent people to feel powerful.  these days, brats have plenty of options, none of which seem to make any difference for society as a whole.

the plague of entitlement continues to destroy our country.  the lucky ones that made it to the top did so at the expense of their friends and family, consciously or not.  in fact, we rewarded them.  bling culture extended far beyond hip-hop.  people ignored the dollar numbers.  most people listening to hip-hop, gangsta or otherwise, were white and rich.  these lyrics only reminded them that what they had been given made them valuable.  as such, everybody is a superstar.

sorry.  i try.

the altruist, alone in himself, putting out the words he knows by heart.  his hands are trembling.  his ears and seamlessly weaved together behind the wall and i sit quietly, not quite knowing how to answer or speak without breaking a promise.

i sit still and wonder to the kids in the next room about the future and the possibility of true fulfillment in a world of madmen and pigs.  i stew about the room, ears pressed against my scalp, with my hands dangling away from my hips, wishing for a table.

i am alone again, besought and removed, kidding the landscape about the fortunate folly of my flippant tirades.  people tire of me easily.  often, i excuse myself before being told to leave right away.  i find that comforting, that not anybody can tell me when to leave.

such is this world i guess.

his eyes gleaming as he wrote again to his friends about the progress inherent to his dilemma.  he was struck by his own lack of emotion, her tears stubbing his feet and his toes held closely to the carpet, he was benign and cavalier, but he could never detect any falsehoods.  as he thought more and more, he felt his rage dissipate and the waters opened up in his chest and he cried for a day.  she saw his weakness and felt disgust and empathy, she could not see him in the same light.  the shadows had crept over him.  he was black.

behind the wall he sits, his arms up by his head and his hands down by his hips.  i kiss his gentle brow as i wipe myself along and whisper to the addicts around me about pain and the causes of sensible pleasures.

as i accurately report my undertakings, sipping quietly on the bedside table of my handstand.  i keep the journal clearly so you can see it i say.  i gamble too much she says.  i wander off to the mall with hooligans she says.  i am a hooligan!  of course i seek the company of other hooligans!  i like myself too much not to deny myself such simple pleasures as friendship!

the wind blowing and the heart shifting away from the sea, i sink deeply into my hands and let the praise of my elders bring my chest to the chin.  i have the deep gratitude common among the idolizing children of great men, and i encourage the bastards and keepers of integrity to continue marching away and back to the gifts i was given.  as the presents are unwrapped and my head becomes complacent and i dodge the secrets of my lips, i maintain the honor and doubt that the elder statesmen of language ingrained in my neck.  i strain quietly and lift my anxiety to the clouds lining my own mind.