The check

 The check came from your closed-out college fund. 

  

       

.

Another door closing,

Another driving me forward, against my will,

As I watch you in my rear view mirror

Getting smaller and smaller and smaller until someday you disappear.

Of course I know this is not the truth of it for you and I, not really. You are not shrinking in the mirror for me.

But  I hear the clanking turn of another gear as life moves on for everyone else. And one day soon you will only be a memory to them all, a spot in the fucking cemetery. 

And everyone that loves you, or did love you, or should have loved you more, or could have loved you blink you gone.

And that, as they say, will be that.

The thought of this makes my eyes bleed red

 the veins in my neck swell 

and I want to tear at everyone

and everything until all life is shredded.

I want to rage and hate

And pull in the sky. 

Maybe I need the rage again

  Maybe I invite it.

Another red towel waved in front of the bull.

An excuse to go crazy and let it all pour forth again on the world

To roll my eyes and bellow at the NOTHING.

It is a bloody, messy business. No wonder people back away, who could blame them? I am an inconsolable mess as I cast my rage on the mountain, because it is the only thing to do that seems to truly measure how hard this is. I whip my head left and right and look for where to charge.

I can never get mad at you baby, or at God. I just don't feel it. Easier to blame Chaos. Fate. People for being so stupid. This fucked up world. Irrational rage. After all a red towel is all it takes to set the bull in motion.

All of this is just descriptive.

 I guess I write it down to get it out of my head or to create a story of it someone else might read and understand, and walk a mile with me.

 Or because writing is Holy to me.

 It brings the deep quiet breath

 As the bull either wanders back out to pasture

Or dies for the audience.

What I am coming to know of you, of course, is quite a different story. You are certainly not shrinking into the rear view mirror as I clean out closets, cash college fund checks or brush away colored leaves and tiny flowers that have turned to dust on your desk top. 

That is not the truth of this horror at all. 

You are here.

You are.

Not exactly as you were, a tall, beautifully-made boy-man.

Golden and sound and splendidly imperfect.

Instead you are a swirling field of energy that moves around and in me all day, every day.

Ancient

Powerful

Mirthful

Busy

Timeless

Completely restored

Tuned to a mystical cord I can barely perceive, but I hear you, nonetheless Baby.