Possible that I am dead,
passed through the thin veil of existence
into something else,
what came before,
I can only imagine was worse than this.
Here I am free,
a crab in the wildest sense,
skimming the bottom of the trenches of existence,
hoping that the morsels I pick at with my claws
will be of use to me,
and perhaps I travel great distances.
I do not know,
I wish to know,
I wish to see the air above the surface
with its bright yellow light,
how it plays off of the roof of my world;
and in my crab existence
and in my human existence
I somehow seek to distance myself from that which I need,
to fall into the spiritual jet stream of a world devoid of time,
a world soaked in answers
just as my mother used to soak her sponges in dish soap,
the infinite merengue bubbles
appearing for only seconds
in her wrinkled hands,
and with pressure and time,
these bubbles would wash away
what was always troubling the dishes
what was always troubling me,
The life that I have lived,
passed on to be a memory,
a distant idea of something that only
“is” through what I make it to be in my own mind.
I was a crab,
now a handful of dust,
then only a memory of my mother squeezing a sponge,
and it all is somehow nog, then, will be;
I cannot explain it.
I can only explain that although I do not remember now,
I know a beach,
a sunset with two suns,
a vast purple sea expanding out into space as far as someone could ever know.
like memories and tense,
is both now and then,
here and there.
Possible that I am dead.
But more possible that I am dying,
Me: a handful of dust with nothing but made-up memories.