You are the bread and the knife, The crystal goblet and the wine… -Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine. You are the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun. You are the white apron of the baker, and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees and the blind woman’s tea cup. But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife. You are still the bread and the knife. You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.
..There’s a lady in the city And she thinks she loves them all There’s the one who’s thinking of her There’s the one who sometimes calls There’s the one who writes her letters With his facts and figures scrawl She has brought them to her senses They have laughed inside her laughter Now she rallies her defences For she fears that one will ask her For eternity And she’s so busy being free
She will love them when she sees them They will lose her if they follow And she only means to please them And her heart is full and hollow Like a cactus tree..
"I’m not sad, but the boys who are looking for sad girls always find me. I’m not a girl anymore and I’m not sad anymore. You want me to be a tragic backdrop so that you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can say ‘Wow, isn’t he so terribly brave to love a girl who is so obviously sad?’ You think I’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I’ll swallow you whole."
At some point it becomes true that all stories are love stories. all making, love making. I didn’t make this rule. but it binds me all the same. I wish there were a law against condescending against love. against the economy of fear that says your joy means less joy for me as if love were pie, or money, or fossil fuel dug or pumped from the earth, gone when it’s gone. it’s just not true. the heart with its gift for magnificent expansion is not coal. not fruit set to spoil or the dollar cringing in its wallet. when you say darling, the world lights up at its edges. when mouths find mouths and minds follow or minds find minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow – how about you call that sacred. how about you raise your veined right hand and swear on the blood that branches there, yes. I take this crush to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy until the bending’s its own pleasure. I will memorize photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance, and dance – there’s a perfection only the impossible kiss possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked in the dark of a room to which you will never return. anything that moves the world toward light is a blessing. why not take it with both hands, lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this is the substance that holds our little atoms together into bodise. this sweet paste of longing
is all that binds us to the earth. and all we know of the gods.