Eso - Through Time - 20150311

The spiritual memory like a single frame photograph of every place in time we have ever been comes back in the resounding hours before the life pulse is out of the body.  Like Paramahansa Yoggananda one can see the eye closing when prepared.  The images of you and me indelible like a single frame of where’s and when’s masquerading in a panoply of colors protecting all that love has ever been to us.

Before the meteor hit I remember the blindness.  I remember the veil of who you are kept in that notched place of hope a man keeps that there is a face looking for him, like each body is a mirror, a glass to see the reflection of the voyeur in cosmic magnetism dancing in trading off atoms.  My mind was an old man then peering out of cataract fog at eighty four.  This was the twenty-third time we had found each other, ninetieth where you died first. 

Sometimes when I think of you I feel like a fifteen year old boy, naïvely hopeful.  I think of your soul like the other part of me I have looked for over and again for infinite lifetimes of which the few I am thankful to recall in this flash are the kiss of God.  The journey of finding and losing, we have done so much searching for how we each reconfigure.  Arranging energy like a tower of babbling words exiting, entering like the atomic distance where skin can never actually touch skin, only feel the force of proximity; wherever you are I feel you.

I remember fragments near the end of at least some of what we have done, what we have lost, what we have loved.  I ponder the trade of roles in the lives where we are destined to connect for only breaths.  The laughable illusion of time, in this oneness, in this infinite palette of darkness surrenders all lines to a borderless canvas where individuality dissolves from the balancing conceptual frames of other and self.  Birthed in task to reform, to recognize again what we are laughing away these frivolous borders melding in love and sex.

The nature of once reborn I could find you again at any moment and explode like a star.  Radiating the energy of fusion, bursting in common essence so that this theater of time plays open like blinking eyelids slowly lowering and rising.  The view transforms with each sequence we witness, recalling nothing but the lingering emotive scent that we have been here before somehow, somewhere, within each other intimate with this atomic ballet.  In the open at the close when I know death is coming for me, as I breach the door for her some lives I am blessed to remember the operations of what we have unlocked in flipping iterations.

The bedrooms and grassy parks, the barrooms and parked cars, the moments you pull me into your folds, my cock bursting full into your heat and the universe melts inside these stardust shells letting it go, releasing to be timeless. We have made life, inseminated entire planets you and me, colliding asteroids destroying worlds in the chaos of passion wanting and not wanting of pursuit and avoiding and at some point we smolder in the fire.  At some circle of breaths this always arrives, the last of us spreading the door for death, smiling, knowing the secrets we will soon forget.  This shell, these hands, our hair, the colors, the tones, the country, the skin, the language shifting, and always there are the two of us finding each other as cosmic magnets.

Even though I do not see or hear you, I feel you.  I feel you being reborn within me as we live in each other like a shared heartbeat living not in the physical muscle but in the waves of the sound vibrating outward like sonar.  In parabolic curves undulating into the ethereal grip of time with the nascent faith of a young lover emboldened by lustful bravery I know we will bloom unfettered from love’s untainted innocence.  We will express soaked in the consciousness of a fellow divine being.

In each droplet of a lifetime I find you.  Sometimes we love so hard we tear each other apart.  We pilot flawed vehicles.  Our divorces are stupendous.  How many last break-up fucks and make up sex fire pits?  I have never reviled anyone with more lustful respect. The gravity of life forces our volition foul, attempting and failing and finding in only some I remain evoked into a compass-like focus for wherever you are, my thoughts are never far.  Even the oceans of hate are held up with Atlas trenches of love.

I wonder how this can be; if insanity, desperation, self-respect bear meaning any longer.  How I wish to have the true darkness of forget to erase the eons of memory of your essence vibrating like the stardust from which we each were made ticking reformations ago.  This intimacy sharpens the blade of this cosmic distance slicing time into splinters of shrapnel sinking beneath my skin infesting my body into a razor’s edge of detonation flowing directions deeming this body meaningless, carving the nature of soul within me bursting in yellow nova calling for you in loving hope for an answer which like the boulder to Sisyphus, home to Odysseus will never be to truly embrace that which we yearn.

I think of all the other lovers we have taken, the chalk board lessons of dust we danced in like a cloud brewing our thunder and lightning classrooms becoming sexual plasma burning the energy rising up from the planet’s surface to unite in the sky bursting in electric fire.  I think there was a particle of you in every one of my lovers.  Every orgasm bore the echo of your pant. 

I think how life has taught us we do not need to be each other’s lifetime forever to be each other’s forever.  You can love me harder and deeper in a few months than some can in forty years.  The idea that we tear apart is less relevant to the power of the now.  It is always about the platform of the present, for time is a mirage coddling the egoic masking the eternal.

The time it took fifty-nine years and two divorces to meet; the time I was the widower and only had you in the nursing home for eight months; the time we met in fifth grade and drifted apart and you swore you would never speak to me again and I gave you my virginity at our junior prom, the time you  dumped me on the dance floor for some actor in the play you were rehearsing; the time you called me after my car accident made the internet and never again were we apart, except for the cancer.  My God the cancers, of these shells turning on us, always so short and mutinous.

 

I remember the picnic in Brussels, the snow in Nepal, the sting ray in Brisbane, the monkey that stole your hat and I chased the fur in Costa Rica.  I remember the train at Auschwitz. I remember making love to you under the waterfall in Jamaica in your beautiful black body.  We made cinders.   I remember the Canadian fish markets in Vancouver when we emigrated from Shanghai. 

I remember genders and how many times you have been the male, the times we both were and the children we raised.  I remember the protests and the fire lights, the sailing ships and the shackles and having you go to the other plantation.  I remember the cotton dress you wore on our seventh wedding day in the meadow with the doves overhead reminding me of when I use to believe in Easter, did and lost again.  I remember stones tossed into lakes, skipping the surface and plunging like the neckline of midnights aroused and circling in this spiral.  The lucid memories that have come for only these few hours, like a breath held the inhale and exhaled into memory lost in the immaculate cells of born children somewhere in time, to grow, to blossom and find you again from the chrysalis my love.

The times we went through the abortions when it was legal, when it wasn’t.  The wars and the time I came to your funeral with your limbs asunder mangled into a box and I vowed to only cremation because ashes were easier to morn hoping I would remember, knowing I wouldn’t.  In the folds hoping love would find us like birds migrating to the same barrier island out in the Gulf praying the tide did not erode our conjoining place away.  The hurricanes and the fires and the earthquakes, making love to you the night of the air raids before the walls crumbled.  Hanging on to hope the time you were in the coma.  Visiting your room until it beeped and then didn’t, the plans and then remaking them living those forty years without you seeing you drink yourself to death.

In this meditative closure I can feel all your bodies in my fingers, the breasts and buttocks, the legs and clits, the penises and clavicles, the dreadlocks and buzz cuts.  The tastes of your tongues washing me in alchemy of moons and nebula I am yours to take and be taken through time.