There is no sound to it. Fingers pinch handle of light or body and illumination arrives. This is on. There is stimulation of sight as visibility fills in the cracks of dark. When hands learn the hips of another, shadows scatter and suddenly the entire earth is turned on. Electric. Decorative. Emotional. The tic of seizure’d fingers carve out the light from a body. The twist of charged particles. Thrill of power lines replace veins. Shock. Accumulation of hours from charging. Correspondance of wattage. Jolt of fire from bulb or belly or breastbone or behind earlobe. Choice of dim or scream. Push of color from mood or bruise. Blur of contour. Murky twists shaped into wall from hoisted bones. Call this lamp or sex. Name it fluorescent or foreplay. It is track lighting; it is excessive and blind. This is sun; this is lava; this is the reflection of your tongue against the puddle of my throat. This is radioactive; this is neon and plasma; this is the composition of carbon … of gleam … of moon … of torched anatomy.
A replacement to alarm clock: annoying buzz of pre-programmed song on flattened radio called ipod. Large butter knife spreads raspberry jam into sky and preserves drip into the shadows of morning.
There are those days, which turn into weeks, then months, or more accurately described as years that are meant as lessons. Without the school desk or pencil case. There is no homework, but the lessons extend into the evening and through midnight dreaming.
This can also be defined as finding oneself.
Or: the act of living/ gathering selves into a cohesive whole.
Sky brightens, alerting birds to grind beaks together and howl their songs toward windows and tree tops. Grass glows from the spotlight above. Airplanes are visible again. And squirrels.
It is necessary to notice how it feels to breathe in a Monday. How different a Tuesday feels from Saturday or Thursday. Days are like lovers, all so different and yet, so often blurring into the other.