To the gravitationally impaired

Halim Madi
Sep 8, 2016 · 2 min read

If you hold your hand up long enough, your blood will just give up.
If you wait too long for the words to come, your brain will just give up.
If you date enough to find the one, your heart folds up, packs its bags and leaves the land and here you stand.
Alone. Again.
With a wooden spoon to steer the dinner potatoes.

The wooden spoon of the sixth prophet who licked the tree to the left of the building where laundry used to hang and fly when the wind of the south would blow its white and yellow fabric once weaved in the homes of a town where young boys couldn’t speak before the age of 10 and elders sleep on beds made out of books written by the women who fought the war of the six flags and came back on horses the size of elephants who screamed the victory of the army that held no weapons but slings and rocks carved from the belly of the mountain of the 3rd god who birthed the 12th sword which cut the cord that spilled the paint that covered the blanket that wrapped the present that made the day of the peasant whose wife had just found, in the bed of the river the wooden spoon of the sixth prophet who licked the tree on the left of the building where laundry used to hand and fly.

Do I run away from things when things becomes too real?
Somehow, somewhere cringing like an old soul.
Am I the one who throws the burning torch at the bush that sets the witch on fire?
Somehow, somewhere cringing like an old soul.
Does my neuro-empathetic system fire up just enough synapses to not be able to stand anything short from perfect?
Do I want to burn the clouds again? Will I be at peace when the sky turns black?

Black. The black cat who broke the vase that held the ashes of the youngest pianist ever to have played the piano with his 8 fingers making music thought to have been erased by the noise of the cranks of the new machine that powers the town that gave up on the children who could not stop laughing at the prophet who ran around playing sword with a wooden spoon.

Here is the vertical boomerang.
The one you don’t need to throw to get back.
The oldest emotion ever felt.
Alone. Again.
With a wooden spoon to street the dinner potatoes.

The Mother of All Stories

Every story has a mother. And every mother its own mother. The MOAS is on a quest to find the mother of all stories.

Halim Madi

Written by

Poets are the entrepreneurs of the future www.halimmadi.com

The Mother of All Stories

Every story has a mother. And every mother its own mother. The MOAS is on a quest to find the mother of all stories.

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