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letra de motion made visible memories arrested in space - levi the poet

i can still remember the moment when, like a scalpel so sharp he didn’t notice it, my best friend
mentioned black specs in the window panes and said he loved what i’d done with the place and
paint splatter. (or like a settlement crack when the pre-cast masonry shrinks and expands, but it
feels like the foundation shifting and when the concrete contracts like that the slab simply sinks
into the sand on which it stands.)

no wonder he’s stumbling over the cornerstone with figurative eyes full of floaters and flashes
and fibers projecting jackson pollock paintings dripping and alcoholic and brushing abstracts into
life

well anyway, the incisions in his vision cobwebbed out like varicose veins and when he finally
realized that my walls were white, afraid was the only word that he found to articulate the way
the blood spread, bruising beneath his faith. like a child scribbling something new into the pages
of her coloring book, it kept refusing to stay inside of the lines, and he kept wondering if love
really shows up to cast it out

keep forgiving

i’ve seen it in the nudity that the spirit seeks beneath the post-it-notes as fig leaves that i stick to
myself like pithy, adhesive truisms could be my covering. there is something sacred about
standing naked and blurred by the condensation in the mirror – that gl-ss darkly, that fog – the
way that knowledge came with a cost that taught me that certainty is not peace, and trust is more
than belief, and surrender is more than a verbal -ssent to the idea of surrendering

in confidence, my mother said that she wonders if there are some things that just will not be
reconciled on this side of death. and i used to have her pegged as an escapist but what else is
there to do but give up when clenched fists and vengeance still don’t produced what they’ve
intended?

can you be tender enough with yourself to flesh it out? to let the mess be what it is? we
pummeled the constructs to dust and stared at it like, “well, where do we go from here?” that
earth looks a lot like what we’re made of. self-flagellation is what it is regardless of whether you
call it penitent or progressive sanctification. is the word as retributive as we made him?

she heard my plea for mercy before i knew how to speak it. one morning, in her living room, i
tried. the sunlight shone in through windows that lifted the colors of roses she had dried and
hanging upside down in a row against the white on the wall, blood red like a foreshadowing and
a sacrament

i said, “i’m paralyzed. everything that has been so right for so long now just seems so wrong, and
i don’t know how to start over, and i don’t know how to hope for anything beyond the approval of
men who, somehow, had me convinced that buying their indulgences was the equivalent of
hearing the voice of god

how do i learn to hear him if they’re gone?”

- levi the poet

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