The Slow Dignity of Worms

I will write what I have to. There are reasons. I will not write the reasons, because the reasons do not matter. I will write of what matters. Of waking without really sleeping and finding nothing is the same. Of the long fall; of the sudden stop. Of plummeting and of plumage on the way down. Of the real, hard texture of wood. Of what's really going on down in the dirt. Of sitting still and of spinning, spinning, spinning.

I have a message from the people: We are sick. I think it's the strip malls.

There is no such thing as authority, and power dissolves in an instant like pudding. We need to be okay with that. I am making breakfast out of the soft morning light. I am calling you over to share it. We can hold the light in us all day long, and we can share it. By evening, we are like peacocks, and we are glowing.

This is how we sleep: when the inhale runs out, we pretend it isn't so. We are falling.

Rhythm is imaginary, but it is the answer. When the ground shakes, I dance like a motherfucker, and I do not collapse. When the ground shakes again, and everything falls, I surrender. At the bottom, I share my breakfast with the worms. They will bring the light back to the surface.

Please listen: It takes time, but if you bear the wait, the birds will paint the sky with it.