The Climb

We eventually dug our way out of the tunnel. It was bound to happen sooner or later. If we worked hard enough, we were bound to be successful. We had talked about it long enough. We had dreamt about it for so many nights that were like days, and we had sung about quietly during the days that were dark.
One night we clawed through all the muddled dreams, through the bright geometric nightmares, through unspeakably complex puzzles all made of dirt and branches and dust. And we did it with our own hands and we did it with our own voices and with our newfound language which easily disturbed and broke apart the thick walls of our established identities that had turned into heavy pieces of rock.

I could feel the heavy force of gravity the entire time – pulling us down, down, down. I saw old symbols carved into the walls as we passed by and kept on moving and many times I slipped on the outstretched forms of a few equations and algorithms for which I had no understanding or explanation.

Something may have helped us along the way, something that sometimes pulled us up, something leading us along through barely visible silver threads. But it had no name and it had no voice so we would never speak of it and we couldn’t have said anything about it even if we wanted to speak. We would never acknowledge its presence even among ourselves.

Our improvised songs travelled out ahead of us like guides, then came back as echoes and told us of the future. We wouldn’t let any force stop us. Not fear, not hunger, not exhaustion. Nothing would pull us back, we wouldn’t let anything pull us back down. Sometimes when I looked ahead I saw the same nothing staring back at me, nothing behind, nothing ahead, nothing below us, nothing above. But I kept on digging, and I kept on singing and I kept on speaking.

I awoke on the other side, naked and red with blood and bruises, encircled by cold and darkness. Bubbles clung to my skin, and the past dissolved behind us in a black puddle.

We all walked away in different directions then and I never saw any of them again. I never even tried to search for them. When I think of them now, they have no faces and they have no names. I am not even sure that they ever existed at all.

The Quince Tree

The quince tree stood in the distance,

at the edge of the dreaming desert.

It stood illuminated in the moonlight,

And its fruit glowed from within

like tiny candles in the night.

All around the tree

the ground was dry and cracked and cool.

I had become invisible to those that once knew me.

I had disappeared into the hot nothingness long ago,

into the dry wind of blue and yellow.

I was brittle now, but I was also an explorer.

I would hitchhike on the edge of sentences,

and merge distant worlds for a moment in the dark.

No one knew I was there.

On the edge of the dreaming desert,

I remembered a children's song from long ago:

little darling fruit

you make the perfect pie

I wrap you up in sugar

and let out a little cry.

Little darling fruit.

I was alone now,

a lone dreamer within a vast dream.

The silver light lit the desert floor,

alive with tiny creatures of the night.

The dark leaves shook,

the fruit on the quince tree dangled restlessly.

I felt fear hiding in my body,

in the void explored in sleep,

in the places where words hung suspended

like fruit in the moonlight.

I knew that all the secrets were everywhere,

In every direction

around every corner

all around me

all the time.

So I rubbed by naked body against the bark,

and I lay on the ground.

I closed my eyes and

I was still in the nothing.

Then I felt the invitation

and I let a response emerge
from my mouth.

Two ancient species spoke that night,

And they made a connection

at the edge of the silver light.

I would never be alone again.

Into The Nothingness

He disappeared, nearly naked,

Dressed only in a long white garment.

A white cloth

covered in numbers and geometric shapes.

He slipped into the nothingness,

into some place I will never know.

(If I were to follow him,

the me that can know would have left

and I would be left as naked as he was

unable to understand whatever I was seeing.)

He broke with the language of our world,

and left behind only scattered fragments –

A poetic line

A shopping list

An idea for a story

An argument not fully formed.

He left in a succession of slow breaths

Which carried the old melodies we once sang together,

our voices strong and cracking.

He took with him

A thousand stories we will never hear,

food we will never taste,

so many things I wish I learned,

but I didn't.

His face now appears on maps,

The kind I sometimes look at

but mostly I try to avoid them.

His face is quickly losing its shape

even though the map lines tend to converge.

The story ends

and I cannot contain my wailing.

I am left without numbers,

with only a drone of ongoing pink noise

and a few mechanical glitches

now and then

a kind of broken rhythm,

irregular pulsing.