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by Tim Ramick (Author)
Here we are, be it known-some of us isolate ourself in desert stark, in storyless sweep of grit and glare, swallow and wait, waterless oceans of ancient living and future sundeath. We reject the shade of the family tree. We bake our thoughts in hushy air. We yawn under constellations and peer at ants. Some of us integrate ourself in forests old, in story old of star and cross, stone and shroud, love and resurrection and sinny wonderment. We reject the thrills of the knowledge tree. We spread our words to the far corners of the flooded fields. We still suffer heartache and heartburn and heartrend. Some of us invest ourself in civil clamor, in storyful cornets of wit and loss, ascent and fall, boulevards of ambition and penthouse picnics of loneliness. We reject the ease of blankets under roadside trees. We clink glasses in gleaming array and sparkle our eyes. Some of us sweat in the brimstone fields. Some of us tarry in suburban lint. Some of us bleed in national trenches. Some of us wallow in thuggery and swill. Some of us never get to open our eyes but all of us who do get to close them. Some of us wake to sunshine on the day of our undoing.
We drip a slow drop at a time from our human glacier. We shape the landscape and we raise the seas. We disappear into an atmosphere of something from something, a universal system, the mutable within the immutable. We are damaged and steeped in hurtability. We are mumps and courtship and aneurysm and we are uneraseable. We origin ourself of carbons and oceans and apes. Some of us still seek shelter under trees in lightning storms. We still let the mean and stupid propagate. We still need bodies. We still kill some of our killers. We still kill some of our unborn. We still want our children to be healthy and happy. We touch shoulders in the cinema where the floor is sticky under our shoes. We cradle ourself in our bedtime story. We stroke brow. We pat hand. Here comes the horizon.
