Half Sung Song of the World

The bird tells me I am half wrong, that I will always be exactly half wrong. That the song the world is singing is only half heard, half sung because one lung is always hidden from breathing. The naked eye. The open ear.

What I mean to say is this: perhaps you can let yourself go a little crazy.

Perhaps you can anchor one foot in this world and dance the other into the unseen, mysterious invisible place the poets are always talking about. The world where the old bone woman lives, the one who collects what is in danger of being lost because she inhabits what we can never see but which becomes seen through us.

Tell me sweet child inside, why would you want to live a mild life, full of strife when there is wildness to be had?

A broken window, a carved out hill, a delicate little mind expanding pill — all these things open up the field of perception to the invisible temple of potential that lives behind all things.

Each day you must wake up and say, “I must bust through this seriousness of form, never be forlorn, and play in the shadows of the day and find the animal of myself.” The one that lets the soft body of yourself love what it loves with no gray fray of mind chatter that always questions the matter.

Simply live.

Only give of your heart as if it is an art that sometimes requires bloodshed.

So take that knife and carve up the life buried in your bones. Let it be known you are too multiple to bleed, to complex to succeed at anything other than being here, now at the kitchen table in an uncomfortable chair, ready to wear the lessons and insights hidden in the day.

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