The slight of hand and heart.

    I write with my heart.  I write with my hands.  My heart and my hands.  My heart in my hands.  A heart in the hand is worth two in the bush.  That’s not it.  My hands have a heart of their own.  My heart on the other hand is handless.  I digress.

    I use my heart and hands to make something.  To make everything.  Everything is everything.  I read it.  Chew it.  Write it.  Spew it.  All over everything.  I watch it.  Sip it.  Spit it.  Write here.  Right here.  This is mine for you.  I mined for you.  Yes I mind.  Words that mean something…everything and nothing.

    I use my heart and hands to break something.  To break everything.  Rules and windows shattered.  Shattered and alone.  My heart is broken.  It always has been.  It was born that way.  Split in two.  One for me…none for you.  Sometimes I hand it over…my heart.  It always comes back…still in pieces.  Never mended.  Never sewn together like patchwork.  Never darned like socks.  Darn my heart.  Just handed or thrown or left still shattered.   Splattered.  Scattered and tattered.

   I shove it back down my throat.  Sometimes it sits there.  My heart.  My words.  Stuck in my throat.  I choke on them.  Heave and cough.  They will come up eventually.  I will keep trying.  I will keep lying…to myself.  It’s the only way to survive sometimes.  Survived by lies.  Saved by mendacity.   Drowning in a sea of real I cling to a dream to live.  Gasping for air I wrap my arms around it to keep me afloat.  

    Ain’t that some shit?  I cling to lies in order to write the truth.   What lies?  The lies around me.  What lies around me.   Surround me.  I will seethe.  Then I will soothe.  I will smooth out everything.   Everything will be revealed and nothing will be revealed.  The truth is here and then it’s not.  The lie is shown and then it’s forgotten.  That’s the slight of hand…and heart.