I’ve been here alone
some people think
I’ve forgotten my home.
1000 miles away
my heart,
not my body stays.
Broken but not lost;
hold my hand
I’ll take you there –
where the wind meets home
and carries you
through the open air.
Time says you can’t go back.
Yes, we’re all sure of that,
but hope still holds deadhead
like a once thick, now worn out thread.
Tell me your stories about revival
I want to hear them all
About you slain out in the spirit
about the fires on the wall.
Sundays haven’t done that for me
I’m still a stranger about to fall
Oh, can you tell me why
the light looks dim and I’m so small?
Tell me your stories about revival
I want to hear them all
About the hope from the altar
And the devil’s brawl.
I’ve seen your conviction
and the aisles turned dance hall
But damn, it’s so hard
To feel hope through it all.
Tell me your stories about revival
how you’ve prayed for the call
threw your cigarettes in the trash
and committed to the long-haul.
I won’t get to church this Sunday
but I’ll still play tetherball
with a body that’s fragile
and tangled in the drawl.
Greta, Thea, Townes
Wedge pillows and balloon style gowns.
Graham, Berit, Penn
Tap water tests and no gin.
Eliot, Abbey, Holden
Ten years in we folded.
Ezra, Margot, Maeby
I think we’re ready, baby.
This is a tale about George and, as you may have guessed by now, a shore. George is just like you and me. He doesn’t have super powers. He cannot fly, and he doesn’t even have night vision (except of course when he uses his night vision goggles).
George lives on a shore. Do you know what a shore is? I’ll tell you what I know about a shore just to be sure.
A shore is where land stops and water begins, which makes the certainty of a shore hard to see for sure. There’s really no clear line or path on a shore, because the water’s tide changes the shore’s perimeter every few counts of a “Mississippi”. Do you count in Mississippi’s, too? Maybe that’s just something people down in Mississippi do.
Anyway, I guess a shoreline is a pretty simple concept, but for George there is an awful lot of trouble that comes along with living on a shore. I can’t think of all the confusing bits right now, but I can tell you the most significant trouble is George’s inability to ever be, you know, sure.
I heard George say a shore is like a fringe – loose, unformed, and always on the mend. Living on the shore means he’s mostly in flux. He gets pushed back and rebuilds, back and rebuilds, back and rebuilds. Sometimes though, really scary storms come through and erode the shore’s border so much that he has to build from scratch on a new shore a few feet back from where he began. Does that make sense to you? I’m sure.
Well, George got so scared of the shore that he moved to a place off the coast of France. It’s on the water and everything, just like Mississippi, but in France they call the shoreline a Riviera.
He says he’s happy there, but I’m pretty sure any shore — no matter what you call it — is still a shore.
Sometimes – I think –
I’ve nearly found you
but my memory is fooled
by washed images that drew
from faces it never knew.
Can you tell me –
Which part of you I should search for
as the lost characteristics accrue
with ever voice I hear
that isn’t you?
Is it a song? A touch?
A look or a smile?
I’d like to think I’d find you –
even through the miles.
Do you remember breaking up in
high school
college
and those 20 minutes in 2010?
Me neither.
Do you remember crying over
new cities
empty back accounts
and eating beans for a whole week?
Me neither.
Do you remember fighting about
dirty dishes
tree roaches
and those seven years of no sleep?
Me neither.
Do you remember
that girl?
that guy?
that time we realized there were other people in the world?
Me neither.
Do you remember saying, “I do”?
Me too.
If I had enough memories to remember
I’d string them together with falsehoods of you.
Each moment, a thread, woven snippets of truth
with transient hems for your light to shine through.
A new image, a father, a friend.
If only by imagination –
I’d create to mend.
Do you believe in corporeal love?
I ask as you rhyme and feign
appreciation for those you’ve crossed
in love or pain.
Whether built from rebellion or rushed affection
You swear to me blindly
There’s a spark, a connection.
But you’ve never found your place
in the barriers, restraints
That torment and harrow
until you’re soon erased.
A societal spirit that falls
for false elation in a worn out play
where desire is shunted, loyalty praised.
What freedom to float with you
amidst that modern plain
where names are not marred
in a celestial vein.
Where love is captured,
breathed in and soared.
Rushed between every crevice
unleashed, enjoyed.
How does this heart bend and mould
from a confined chest
into a hand to hold.
Does it move by one accord
or with a riotous play that
leaves you scorned?
Will it travel back and stray again?
I’ve heard trough time all pain will mend.
But can I stop the rampant rush?
The heat, the lush, the mush and guts.
I pushed it back, I clinched it tight.
I begged that demon not to fight.
But it’s still —
hovering.
Slowing seeping into my skin
rushing out at every brim.
I have a body 5,129 miles from my home. All seven organs, all 206 bones, and three layers of skin. A mesh of veins and muscles and tendons are all there, too. Ten toes, ten fingers, and breath in its mouth.
I tied two toes with big, red strings before I sent her off sailing into another dream. My body, you know, has seen a lot. But down here, I can feel she is starting to pop.
She’s walked 22.2 miles, traveled Normandie and Paris. She’s eaten a crate of cheese, and a whole fish with carrots.
I let her go on pretending she’s dauntless and brave, but I can see her strings are starting to fade.
So I gave her two toes a few tugs while she was out there – suspended and free – and I asked her nicely to remember me.
Southern Wild 