whenitalktomotherlisten
there are constantly two things in my head.
one is a song.
the other is a bullet being fed to me.
how does one make the choice between a song and a bullet without letting the not chosen go.
and don’t you know what happens when you let a bullet go.
a loose bullet.
a lost bullet.
i prefer most often and otherwise probably unknowingly to do the things i do not know how to do.
i seem to know very little about let-go bullets.
i choose the song every time so i can see where the steel can go.
the universe saves me.
again and again.
i am not let die.
i am not let bullet.
but i am let song.
and so i go hungry because the mouth is not fed.
the mouth is the chef of a song no one knows yet.
and don’t you know what happens when you let a song go.
a loose song.
a lost song.
the grass in my garden knows very well i have stamped notes of life melody on her blades with my feet.
so the theme song to the most hurtful episodes of life becomes a let-go song.
when i see green things die for the first time i write about a bullet instead.
and i write her trajectory.
my bullet goes where my song does.
i kill what my creation touches.
and i never set foot on the grass again.