What is this pouring fire, spewing rounds of spark and metal like confetti, riddling bodies like hard rain? When will we see ourselves as human, our bodies as full with blood and organ and heartbeat? We rip and tear inside of fire as paper. This world wants us to raise ourselves as machines, as if we drill our way through life without cause or regard, without wind gust and tear. We are pain and injury and trauma and death. What will we do with all of this death?
Daybreak brings about joy and still breath as often as birdsong and speckle of light. What is this hole we leave for ourselves, a gaping depth of wind and echo, a massive thorn? What is this numb pattern rippling through us? What is this fire bursting with names, where even in silence, sits full on our tongues, heavy in our hands? Who are the blind who blame or hate, mask as shadows, cloud and cover?
The work of our breath is in every word and interaction, every human space we reside. Fire and ash, this gold and glaze fill the air with deafening sound, a hardened slate with all of our names. Somewhere blood traces concrete, cotton, polyester, skin, where a new wound bursts open for all of us to grieve. How many more wounds before we recognize ourselves as rivers, as rhythms of flesh and beat and blood.