hanging in there

Every time you say, I'm hanging in there, I have this image of you swinging from a bean stalk, elevated seventy feet above ground. Below is a wide, ocean-viewed, butterfly garden covered to the north in hyacinth clusters and to the left, along the trim diameter, is a patch of marigold. Your arms are in a loop,  like the Olympics ring, through which sunshine and insects float in streams. And the tips of your hair, brown and pointy, crackling like chestnuts or splintered pistachios in the heat of a summer swig, when buffalos and bees, caked in oil, hum in the waters of the Yangzong sea. The color of your cheeks is an embarrassed red, and you are surrounded in a scent of mulled camphor. Your words project like film onto the flat of a farm, where unpaved roads and irrigation puddles intersect in perfect geometry. It is like a reflection of your mind; a mirror held to the convexity of your pale eye ball, your cratered mahogany iris, and the hollow silence of your deaf pupils. 

You seem to be suffering a lot lately. You seem to be stalled in a transparent cabinet, frozen and blued in an umbrella of air. You try to move, to walk and smile, but your muscles lay fixed in one dimension. As if pinned along the perimeter of myofibrils, to a point where you asphyxiate with the warmth of your own body heat. Circumstance, I say, and shake my head; the mother of travelogues and plaintive progress. 

I see you from a distance, electric at best, stuck in a mountain of iodine crystals. Your head jutting out, your arms wiggling, and the cage of your upper body trapped in the slant, you speak mathematics and the couture of bubbles. And then you become a leaf, green with veins, bent along your back at thirty five degrees, plucked, forcefully, by a child of six. Placed in a vase of burnt metalloids, you have a new home. You have a new dream. You bring forth a ratio of renewed happiness. And like you said, you blush a green, as the cups of your kidneys swoosh and clutter the candy globes in your blood. You are an oriole with canary filoplumes, embracing your inner diabetic, gurgling away depression, and starting afresh, in cottons of rain, along the periphery of the monsoons. 

The waves of summer are popping in the air. Awake, awake and run to the mills, and climb the beeches on Forest Lane, and shriek out the voice simmering in you. Lola B, Lela B, it is about time, I say.