the candles like

breadcrumbs lighting the way, carving strange paths all flickering. come this way, no turn behind your shoulder blade, go far beyond the trees upon the hill, no, search lower, still, towards the sea level, wait, westward until sundown, but stop, before you leave you must sew on some new buttons, you must gather your whiskey, don’t forget your canteen, you must pack your lovers, and leave all your baggage behind, you must remember the holes, the crannied universe, you must understand a small town.

the candles began repeating themselves this past june or july, everything was about the flame, not sure, decisions came like pistons firing away at every sensory nerve ending of my heart. there was the moment when the future and the last six months clashed together in a spectacular whirlwind of a thousand fireflies, each jettied off with a different part the self. thus, i am missing pieces, and then, there are the candles. there was the time in the mountains, with the lake and the fireworks, and walking the paths at three am with candles adorning tree branches, caves, rock formations. sticks became magic and groves, carved vessels. i watched children hula hoop, singing songs in long gauzy skirts. sculpting tiny people from rock and sand. it was a glorious carnival of men with tassels, long curley hair, sunglasses, glowing caps, young shirtless women running about in gossamer skirts and feathers, their breasts bobbing like dancing fruit, through the crowds, liquor spillling like waterfalls, glowing, glowing, the pulsating beats change and sequins sashay their hips, trees move to this hynotic wind as the stage lights continue to grow. the lake like a lunar sea, old man and wife sending lanterns (yes, it was the candles again) blowing whispers white as the greatest truth of your life into the sky. the lanterns matched the stars and you could see them rising up & up and then it was when they reached the stars they turned their heads and looked back again staring back at you, the stars like candles now, and the lanterns quietly stating the view from above between the mountains and the golden grove you tiny ones there in the valley look so distantly small, you are so beautiful there tucked within your candles in the groove of earth’s smooth palm.

& the moon smiled just a bit now for it is these whispers which make the world go round, and the high priestess lit a candle there in the sky for the dreamers because this is what makes understanding, and life can be amassed with craziness, cocktails, olives, the black lounge of cigarettes, sex, and vice. turning to look behind me i could see it there, glowing with the blackblue bruise of gratification. it was subtle, but the appeal glazed the waxy surface of the stage, and the naked women were sitting on the steps, sleek like cats, brushing silver combs through their long dark hair. people eating paper like colorful stamps of candy, and inhaling the scents of sweat and grace. in the middle of it all there was the airplane shaped balloon 200 feet in the air and tethered to a metal pole reminding the swanlike people tomorrow is the same self in a new dawning

they began to wander off, into the lost caravan far from the stages and taverns, and the vendors began teasing them with bells, tubular glass, and scented cigarettes tipped like burning candles, smoke sultry like spanish dancers with red roses stuck between their teeth. the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen comes up and taps the shoulder. she is wearing a veil and a long white skirt. her hair is narrow and curls at her knees. she asks for a lighter, and burns sage tied with twine to a walking stick. she waves her silkened hand toward the sage so it’s fire would catch. mmm, that is exactly what i needed. she hands back the lighter. your eyes crackle like ice and i was looking at her too hard, i could see them reflecting in hers like tiny tealights. the candles again. they led me back home to the crevice and tent, insignificant dancers in the largest night.

i rose early and drank coffee, i was happy to have slept so little, in the gal avant of the three am dreams. i wore a yellow skirt. the world was cozy like an egg held up to the incubation candle of the sun and i felt content, guitar, true lover, in my arms.

the candles departed and were rekindled in fall to with in which a new friend i was reunited. she was an old friend in a new soul, and i began collecting shoes. we were all walking to different places, but were never going anywhere at the same time.

this sidewalk has been walked a hundred days! they grumbled in their monotony as the alcohol once again began fermenting five days a week. disgruntled minds in a too closed space is like being claustrophobic on a subway train. the shop was like this a lot, people too close to relate more than their eating habits, another egg special for you? because money was tight and only the tight need money. we were loose, we were infectious, all you could hear in your mind was a synthy song. doing coke and watching the presidential election, their words were garbled and you did not like it, you could not make sense of the mess in your head nevertheless the world. and then came the election and it seems like a bolt of electrons the country had decided something okay, every once in awhile the people come together there is union said the young celebratory rioters by the cathedral. and then there was the girl in the corner, skinny as a bird skeleton, delicate as feathers, but she contained wind and one evening created a holiday.

they began creating boats out of anything, twigs, beer cans, rope, colored construction paper, apples, paint, seeds, popsicle sticks, fruit, egg cartons. one silly boy even made his out of a gigantic olive oil can, great silver vessel on an enduring quest. many contained gold coins or sage, rocks, incense, all harbored wishful candles, the candles again.

there were many of them. they walked together like a lost nomadic parade, they walked past the cafe and the masquerade shop, the people stared at them in marvel. a shiny black car sped past and wished he could join in for a moment in passing. girl from the cafe stared calling after them where are you going and they yelled back something about boats and the river and dreams. they marched down the long hill, they thought of the many gallant hills, san francisco, the rila mountains, the grand canyon, the ladder into some kind of heaven, but this was descent. past the industrial rubble and the concrete beach with their boats to the path under the bridge. some stood in silence. some were stoned, while others laughed and giggled and talked. olive oil took aboard the “best boat period” because it could not float, and he was the first to set off, carrying the unstable one with him. the candle was lit and he journeyed past the first laps of shore, and descended, fighting against the river, and then succumbing to its life’s natural flow. the others took their time and meditated there for a moment before lighting their candles and sending them off. carved apple boat spun like a lady on a walk, purple flower hanging out of the apple and reflecting on the water. this was the letting go. from the shore i could see my boat shining with all the past year’s loss, lantern with my cut out heart drifting under many bridges in the distance to the city. they traveled for hours and we sat there watching, twenty candles afloat like lighthouses in a small town sea. some went to climb the crevices of the bridge, george washington’s crossing. on the train tracks, bird girl lit lanterns like moons and we watched them careen upward across the automobiles on the bridge above and this was a forever kind of moment.

forever is frightening and frightening is as long as you live, as precious as it is, it all begins at conception and ends in the conception of a moment. startling, the young ones still did their undeserving loves. wine flowed through portals and grass was still green across the pockets of their trousers. we are trying to appreciate the burning of a golden candle. we are starving ourselves, and beating, and cutting, but loving and loving and loving. how many cigarettes can you light in a day? this is a general question. i do not respond, but i take many walks in a day, always, when the sun is shining. love is love is love and they’ve all taken a thousand lovers, but do not know each other at all. the candles cross in winter this time, and with burning sometimes comes a pain, and this was like a severing, a misunderstanding. an i don’t understand echoing each idealistic brain. the body will destruct. candles will only burn so long, what is so difficult to understand? i am trying to wrap my mouth around the word posthumous here. its cotton dries the mouth and that feeling is helpless. the high priestess sends a message from the sky, energy will change but will never cease to exist and that night they sent energy full throated into the sky.

she was playing a ukulele when we entered the hospital. she was playing him a song. you could see his tremble sometimes when she hit a beautiful note. the energy was transpired into thin air and dispelled into every state of consciousness. he could feel it and so could we. all the drugs we did, the tremendous nights of heavy weight, the palpable lightness of pulses, the seizures, and tents, and poetry while sitting on the cold of the hollow steps, the rain glinting like a secretly alive garden, shoes hanging from the telephone wires. the strange visions of our lives was a baseball careening for the wall and hitting it smack on the center. it was a few nights before we had given thanks. this year we really gave thanks.

sometimes when we are thinking we are so far away. we understood that he was out there somewhere in it, drifting in a fitless sleep of dream, of beauty, crazy mustaches, and love with old memories and new strangers.

post thanksgiving potluck in an old rowhouse. we sat in a large circle. we told each other secrets, what in this lifetime are you most thankful for? we dreamed and dreamed and we hoped and i think someone in that room prayed for the first time that night. the dark haired dancer pulled candles from her pockets and we sat around a coffee table surrounded in glow. you could see clouds of hope lilting above everyone’s hair, and the people with their sad smiles were beautiful. we laughed a little, thinking of a silly boy, but more so we wished for the love of these young moments, fragile, we wished for health. we wished for his health. with each story a small candle was lit, and soon the room was surrounded in candles, candles hiding in the corners, behind the closet door. i have never seen so much frail light falling upward into the stars.

it is because candles will burn forever in a moment and never go out that i write this, it is because i am dreaming of my many miracles of moments in the seconds of light. candles like stars in the many skies we are blessed to see. an old memory now? last spring, candles through the window of a skylight in a room not quite far from here, reflecting in two pairs of blue eyes.

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