The brightness of mid-day,

and hot, it asks “am I too overbearing?” There is never not enough forgiveness to have. The whole world destroys itself as much as it sustains itself. Sustains on what? On itself! So then destruction and sustenance are one in the same. I can feel the sunlight pouring on the left face like a Caravaggio painting. Everyone talks about light but whoever talks about heat? Heat is light’s way of saying “I’m powerful beyond belief.” Shadow says “I will protect you.” The shadow casts long to my right, it sings my songs and says thank you, thank you for absorbing and leaving me only with shape and the ability to forgive. It’s time to switch sides, the loaf is crisp on the edges but cold in the center. Sometimes I let the shadow pen do the talking. Everything is cramping up and I need jungle-gym energy. Playful buoyancy and clairvoyance. Diamonds and rubber bouncy balls in the same jar. It doesn’t matter. We can contain multitudes. We’ve got enough words to fill the dictionary of the soul. We have forgiven the sun for its brightness. We are happy. Glad for the color of things. The creation of every creation of every creation of every creation. The brain is an extension of the soul and we act like its some elevator operator. “Fourth floor please.” Please, you think we aren’t living walking breathing miracles? Who needs to be convinced when so much as waking up and sighing is a song of angels. Who is the composer to my song but myself? I’m not here to convince you you’re okay, because I don’t know that. I don’t know the theater of your existence, the heroes journey that feels all too unheroic. All I know is my affinity for the world as a giving thing. An asking thing. An insecure bundle of energy and color. If I knew a world only of pavement, maybe I would love the pavement and forgive it for its hardness. When I was a child I would poke a finger as deep into the earth it would go. I would feel the temperature change. I would hear the conversation between wet and dry dirt. I wouldn’t think that there was an end. That if my finger was long enough, it could travel through all unknown realms of existence. I only know what I know. Who gave all the worker bees LSD? Culture is a beautiful thing . Culture is an oppressive thing. Culture asks for forgiveness.