for emma, forever ago

i remember when i used to do this thing.

i was five.

and i would walk away, from the house of sons and peters...

i would find a place. far from there. grab a stick. and sit.

digging into the surface of the rocks. i kept digging. removing each rock from it's fevered domain. digging. i kept digging.

or i would go to the woods. and sit. with a stick. and dig. knowing that each displacement only lead to further displacement.

and now, my clouded woods are a back parking lot. a rocked ground on the back end.

i pulled out a stick tonight. and dug. removing each rock, from it's fevered domain. sitting in the dirt, the mudded ground at the back end of the lot. amidst automobiles and silly greek songs.

i sat down. and dug. kept digging. one hand holding the native addiction. the other, a stick. a bigger stick. i sat and dug. removing each rock. only to find more. but some comfort in the childlike nostalgia.

some loneliness still. in the filled gravel. noting a dead branch ahead of me. and a dead stick held. and a rock removed.

and then i went inside. and found a friend named andre. and sat.

i sat down and dug, kept digging. only to find a deeper rock, hidden. disabled from movement.

i sat down. and remembered.

danbury baptists of 1802 post modernized

the separation of God and man, a difficult, still painful distinction, to vie for a being contained not by standards of man. when religiosity has so deeply permeated my understanding of what may or may  not exist as a reality. anger plagues the confusion of distinction, when position requires unthought boundaries, socialized within the confines of modern-technologically advanced, Constantined society. 

to seek God, a being or a divine or a nothingness, festers as a thought, or as a pursuit of a sovereign entity of present credit, allowance. disdain for limitations, sore chains of suffrage and rioting, the initial exhaustion, or apathy, have settled, along with the increasing tension of bonded arms amid natural beauty. 

I did not move, but sat, like a stagnant creature stilled by a prey of fatigue. the languor of fighting, deeply concerned by an inability to know, facaded by a pride of resolve, perpetuated a wrestle unknown, categorized not by freedom. in opposition of the leveled eye, rather than a submission of seeking, creatively disillusioned not by 20th century, cyclical thought, the blooded breast beckoned defeat. 

if bowing is to a formulated existence, rebellion I then choose-for what is of consequence anyway? (but suffocation.)

preliminary hunting does not hope to separate human from divine, as initially presumed, but to join two, perhaps opposing forces, into a colored juxtaposition of real understanding. so then, in the deconstruction of influence, attached to a figured or proposed value, I am seeking--perhaps for the first time--and not simply in existence, but in purpose. 

and freedom, in the cause of understanding, sings harmonically, while the effect awaits anxiously, and perhaps never known.