I was trying to represent an angel. I ended up tearing up napkins to create her. It represents all the people I have meet that are on the autism spectrum.
I know what I am not but not what I am. I know when to stop but not when to stop starting. I can inch my way into the middle and get stuck in the molasses of neither here nor there. I don’t know how to swim upstream without pounding pain, and instead, in alternate route, float downstream away from the waters where all else abounds.
Somewhere I have forgotten myself, and I search to find her, thinking I have arrived, only to once more find I am at the backdoor looking into what was and thinking I had known then.
I cannot remember who or where I have been, anymore than I can visualize where I am going. I am lost, in a time maze of confusion, falling upon a self I cannot fathom or detect.
She is there, in the shadowed-tunnel, collapsing and reborn into another, faster than humanly feasible. She is multitudes unopened and reopened—an anomaly in form. To be and not to be. To care and not to care. To unravel into the very depths of reason and peer down into the pond of ‘me.’ Only to question what it is that stares back with such disregard and wonderment.
I am but enough and then I am unequivocally lacking, never measuring up to the enforced standards absorbed from the path I walk. I clamor for explanation and find a thousand books untouched, though in some fashion taken into the realm of reason. I can feel the words: the spoken, the whispered, the silenced, the ones that never came and ones that never speared the element that is I.
They make me. They form me. They penetrate me into something I know not. Clay to my mind. Dirt to my heart. Scattered residue of earthly wants and needs. Goods that I am neither capable of grasping or acquiring.
I am this existence that the observer watches. Reformed with the passerby. Morphed into their reality and then left, unscattered and splattered, broken and unbroken, in a pool of endless duality.
I am what I am—yet only for a fleeting moment; a chance to take glance towards the outline of my palm, the beat of my heart, the opening of a billion universes. Everywhere I am, and at once I am alone. Isolated. A loneliness no less difficult to explain than the essence of what I have become. ~ Sam, 7/24/15
She mounts, as the tuft ribbon, torn
Riding the circumference of questioning
Mind turned, trembled-wavers
Across endless cause
I cannot, I can, I will, I shan’t
And over the mountain terrains
Feet, aching soles
Upon beaten battleground
Heart opening to the chasm of reason
She is, and she is not
Twisted and reborn into
This something new and un-new
Opened and closed
Reexamined and brought into the light
Distraught and brilliantly aware
Carrying the global basket, woes
Torrid tears racing down bones
Outlining, this shadowed-speaker
Born into prism
Walls, resurfaced and reshaped
Made into what almost is
Until fleeting moments weep away
Left idling, still,
In creviced thoughts
Of what has come
The torrential gathering
~ Sam, 7/25/15
He enters and all trembles. The bees. The birds. The very sky.
The whisperers of words shushed.
Say, his fingers.
How they weave and break, as the wave at the peak of servitude, pounding on the sandy shore proclaiming his arrival.
All is still.
Say, his voice.
Gentle comes the tellings of before.
And he weeps in his confession.
In his confusion.
Hush now, she comes, his mistress cloaked in blue, bathing him in gentle promises.
Pressing her cheek to his, her sign of blessing.
Her skin the touch of delight. Her taste still lingering beyond his breath.
Inhale as he does, her beauty. Taking her with his eyes and the quiet plenitude offered through the beating of his heart.
His hand to hers, he releases his guard, and the air escapes him, embracing the delicate freedom.
Her wanting sets upon his chest, the broadness thick and inviting. To hold him again, her only bliss.
To be taken into his stronghold, the only desire.
Oh, how she misses him in their shared withholding.
Her ache easing back to the familiar home. His passion seizing—lightening disassembled and reborn down the span of his center line.
Tell me, she asks, without words. Take me, her every layer screams.
And still he stands, the weeping man, forging through the land, this warrior come home.
In thought. In long ago deed.
Reliving where he’d traveled, and mourning his departure.
Lastly she moves, swaying her silhouette beyond reach. Her last desperate plea trapped in the quake of her throat.
Love me, she bleeds.
Before embracing herself in tremble.
In the darkest hours
The world moves
As master puppeteer
Disappointed in the performance
The drill and the hole
The very duplicate of the invented peg
Inhabited by falsehoods
Illusion that claims fact
Trapped in the twined ball
A fiber in twisted imaginings
A race to nowhere
Like the wheel set free
Down the endless hill
Within a magician’s spell
When each is born blue
A prized ribbon
Left to unravel and bleed
In the reign games
A veil aching for recognition
From this place
Phantom ink scribbles
With vulture-tinted egos
Thousands born apart
Behind the layers
Through the labor
Luff to the wind
Curved as wings
Riding the feverish waters
Turned sultry thick
Folds of flowing ghosts
With strong voice familiar
Captured in enduring flight
Through the ache of voyage
Capsizing the maiden
Nape upon nape
In the storm of you