dry

my knuckles are cracked and bleeding.  the cold dry air here saps my body of moisture and still i drink too much coffee and not enough water.  i want to tell you everything but if i do then tears will come, and i’m too dry right now to let that happen.  the salt will sting my knuckles and i will wipe blood across my cheeks.  so maybe later.  as for now, i’ll just sit here, silent and anonymous in a cafe where nobody knows me, nobody can recognize me, i’ll keep my eyes down just in case, keep these sunglasses on even though the day’s inferno has slipped behind the mountain.  it’s cold and dry and the sky is cracked and bleeding.  the moon is out, also cracked in half but not bleeding.  trees everywhere are dying, which we find beautiful to witness, but when people are dying we do not find it beautiful to witness, even when they turn bright colors.  later i will tell you why it’s been two months since i’ve written.  i’ll tell you about my journey back across the desert and over the mountains, about the ways that God touched me despite the ferocity of my skepticism, how the fabric of the universe wove itself around my life and journey and delivered me into and out of the lives of the people i needed to meet, the inexplicable synchronicities and surrenderings, the woman whose pain i carried without knowing what was happening and the book i knew i was supposed to give her, i’ll tell you about the night i broke my rules and ended up in a strange city after dark, frigid, throwing up my hands and sitting on a bridge waiting for a sign and watching the mist come off the river and saying that i swear to fucking god i’ll sit out here until i catch hypothermia and freeze to death, enough of these fucking coincidences, i will sit here and i shall not be moved until you send me a sign or i die, one or the other, and i’ll tell you about the hours i waited and then i’ll tell you about the boy who came for me.  i want to tell you all of it but right now i can’t.  i want to tell you about new york city.  dc.  how i packed up a car all over again and set out on the last leg of my journey.  i want to tell you all the people i’ve seen, the places i’ve been, the sunsets i’ve felt, smoking cigarettes with janna in nashville and wandering minneapolis with andrea and milwaukee and the rivers and the colors and wisconsin autumn and following school buses and watching the kids get off and remembering what it felt like to get home from school, cold parking lots cooking meals out of my trunk, i wish more than anything i could tell you about the moon over the badlands, i wish i could share with you that silence, that stillness, but anything other than a long empty blank page would be a lie, just like all of this has been, i’ve made it all up, everything you’ve read here, none of it was ever true.  i want to tell you about the dragonfly cemetery, i meant to write about it but just never did, i want to tell you about the runaway teenagers who gave me a ride in their stolen truck, i won’t forget them but i never mentioned that one either, all i can think about right now is all the things i will never be able to tell you, i can’t tell you what the sky is doing right now, or what is happening inside my heart, i want to tell you about the woman i met that last night on the road at the rest area in wyoming, how when i met her everything she saw was ugly and when i left her something she saw was beautiful, how i haunted the truck stops at that exit in cheyenne, giving travelin kids rides across town because i still hadn’t found a single hitchhiker, black hills sunset, chalk sky mountains, tar acid blackout, ceramic moon roots, perth string monster, now i’m just putting words together.  joe read from finnegan’s wake.  wish i could tell you about that too, but i can’t, i just can’t.  the most insane music was crying and the candle was twitching and i was high and in the lotus position at a house party and just wanted to run but couldn’t twitch a finger, there is just so much, too much, forever too much and each day that goes by is another thousand moments that will be forgotten.  i should delete all this nonsense but won’t do that either.  i want to tell you where i am and why i’m here and what is happening to me.  i can do that much at least, can’t i?  i’m in boulder colorado.  that’s all i’ve got.  i can’t tell you right now why i’m here or how long i’ll stay or what i’m doing.  wish i could but somehow sometimes in the space of a hiccup a person could forget everything they ever knew, be left with nothing but a man walking silently down a street, into the glare cast by an orange tree-feathered lantern and then out again

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to dry

  1. Janna Wagner says:

    I wish I had seen that moon over the badlands. I have so much love in my heart for you when I read this. Thank you for sharing it. I too am sitting right now in a coffee shop where I don’t know anybody. The mug is burnt tie die turquoise ceramic and the latte is creamy and hot and there are flowers painted on the table. And I wonder, what am I doing here. A lot of things can happen in the “space of a hiccup”

  2. Liz and Cat says:

    Hey Dave. If you are thirsty, we are here. Be safe.

  3. Andrea says:

    thanks for briefly mentioning me Dave 🙂 just want you to know I LOVE your writing! You may not be moving around the way you were, but you are always on a journey and I would love to hear about it if you ever get more urges to write! ((much <3))

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s