THE JOKER IS TIME
JUST ANOTHER LOVE STORY
By: W. Jude Aher
The night was carved by love, all its words and all its truths. And as the darkness came, painting all taught light into a void, so I turned and so she turned. As each reached out, so it was that we came to touch. We ignited ourselves into the cries of our flesh and its yearning for one another. And separately, we screamed together and so, until our sound was sound no more. What is eternity but a fantasy we have shared in a we touching. And when we moved apart, we still moved together, as we were still centered by that second eternal.
She cried from the pain that is life. And she cried for me to hold her, forgetting that I did. She rose to see, just to see me. Rising to be, just to be … We were lost!
It is not a time of death, yet there was a dying here within the air. And so I can never remember, as this non-relative time has never died to be forgotten. It shall never die, within the eternity of I, as it was created eternal.
Awareness iss blowing over and through my senses all, and there are no eyes to close.
I stand and it is winter. Winds born from out of nowhere scratch their lies continually across my face. And I wander naked out through the trees that never fall but yet are too smooth and too tired to ever be climbed. Yes, I wander through a yesterday that is tomorrow. And within a today that holds service to only the nowheres that hold rhyme with that ever-continually passing air. There are no covers warm to crowd around any dreams of non-birth. I’m ever to know that I was born; I’m ever to know that I’m alive. So, only can I live.
I held no body and so no yearnings. As she walked her fingers non-sleepily asleep through the crevasses of my skin, so did I walk her fingers.
With tired eyes that knew no sleep, I was neither awake. I was liquid in a world of solidity; I was solid in a world of liquidity. And that is the friction against the we. I passed into knowing sight of our eternity. From now I knew now as more than a second yet passed. There were faces carved ugly and carved so dark that they were not faces but shadows. Just a nowhere that had no place to be lied to this somewhere that they existed. And yet, there they whimpered ever beyond my grasp, non-faces that lie in their fright that they shall never be known. A ship is swallowed by the sea, leaving no one alive to cling onto its dismantled boards, that now they never sink, just drift from nowhere to nowhere, clashing against nothing, refusing to let this sea again be free. I saw a table, a too clean white sheet, and the sterilized feet of my woman, wading through death, waiting still. And I saw my child, our child trying to be born, crying till he is torn. I saw broken glass worn. There was a sound which gives birth to a child of sound no more. Suddenly someone’s tears drowned me and I slept.
I awoke and saw that she still slept. And as the reflection broke, I knew where wisdom flew. And quietly I had to cry that she might sleep, that I might sleep. And I didn’t speak that I knew it was not yet time to mirror any reflection.
In broken rhyme,
is greater the poem
which never ends,
Yet is eternally whole
But points of warmth … on a line of cold
I was tired, so tired of fighting across those webs of time, through which we must travel. In whose reflection can we only act out the reality of our love in touching.
We lay drifting together in an over sleep of a morning’s nature. We knew, even though we cared not to think about it, that time was slowly coasting against the eternal second, that reflection which was our touch complete, our oneness reaching eternally with our potential dreams of forever.
But dreams still they were, as in restless motion she moved under the silent command of a far too deep voice. It is not there, she hoped to say, please forget the acts of its today. Yet it was not a point but a pattern, a line, a continual intersection. As she rose I heard her leave. I watched her nakedness, and against her still presentness within me, I yearned for her to return to me, no not to me, but to we. I was trying too hard to forget that the we had broken within ourselves once again. And she clothed herself against me. Glad to be wrapped in her aloneness. And I listened, as still within her I heard. So still the few lines of we, though few and barely readable, existed. Her warmth immediately became a lie, so I rose to offer my warmth. Forgetting again!
And she fought against the acts of any I. She cried out in fear. Did she forget that I was really within, that I already knew. Did I forget that sharing is a dual awareness, not the attempt, the hope of one.
I stood quiet, offering I as a wall, that her screams might force small against this lost yet present fear. It was pain to know that one did not belong, while he did. And suddenly she saw me, and as I wiped the tears, I saw her. As she was slowly dying, she forgot the remembering, the we. Yet I was not she, and I heard my non-belonging still. Then as she needed the we, I closed to be open and free. I touched where I had touched. The we was still. The we was complete, but for the blackouts. And I held her holding me. Until?
If the mathematical equation of
will we ever know
and when will it show, our using it as a whole,
and is the factor large enough, to be:
PROOF AGAINST THE PROOF
And I waited, watching our death equate within the equation of we. And I waited in love, as in the equation of we! …
Alone, and when my thoughts, my whole being, drifted, I came again upon my never belonging with time. Was she as close as I seemed to see her to be? Or was I dreaming a not yet sequence for reality. And I yearned to create her, but could I paint what I saw? Was she tired and worn hard against the continual aching, breaking of her fears? Was she seeing me in the completeness of her love, in the continual birth of our sharing? No, I wanted to paint her with me, but there was no canvas that might support the color meld of we. Alone!
Winter was quiet then. The wind blew but sleepily, leaving just hints that it was winter which carved its passage. And though I had nowhere to, I found myself walking once again.
Days were gone and days were yet to come. And now is only a timed sequence finding its solidity somewhere within the touch of both. And within the complications, what is?
Not having seen her for a year, not having known of her even frightened touch for a time longer, I almost wondered. Did I fear my own knowings, my own eternal sight into time? Why had I called her, to say hello, but still again. As nature flows, time is born, and so time must die.
She entered the room of I present, consciously in wonder. Knowing not did she see, a time truth within herself? We sat together in a time of turning, in a time of hellos, of good-byes. I gave my words as more than simply symbols. I gave them as color, which might drip onto that thin line of now. That she might see the tracings of we, and its irregular reality reachings. Across yesterday into the wonders of tomorrow was the day of that meeting. She sat near absorbing her own knowings of our time. And I watched her, her breath parading her skin, in strong pulses against her blouse’s domain. I listened as a distant tear lost in the rain, paraded across my face again. Had I known how much life must have been waiting for me to see and therefore say, Yea, we have completed our day and now it is time to go. Had I known as I had taken her into my arms, that the kiss she wanted as a continuation of our hello was but a completion of our day. Had I known? Her hair sunburned naturally light as she asked that my arms hold her. And I held her sharing this second dream with her forgetting birth, forgetting death, just feeling we. In the unstructured sight of feel, I knew her against me. I was able to hear tomorrow reaching closer toward now. I opened my eyes to see her, her length against mine. With eyes clear of those always crowding sounds of another’s fear, I felt them resolved into mine.
Her hair found my hand as my hand found her skin, and we roamed lips within lips, taking sips from the line of we. And then I knew that the time was here. And as here eyes were mine, she knew also. As I touched her skin, I fingered a tune. I saw her skin as clothed with mine, as the continued path we could only find. She swallowed her tears and then held me near, desperately, and she spoke. "No, not now, it is not the time, as my eyes are not clear enough to retain our continued seeing." And I knew what she would not hear, that she had said good-bye.
I wait on reality,
and will cross anytime with anyone, who
shares a now,
but when good-byes are said,
I can’t wait in dreams of birth
for death gives eternity its - Aloneness.
I sat in a darkened aloneness, drifting down below even my own silence. On a peak above time, I found my line resting. And my eyes were opened as I had never learned how, never really saw. I saw yesterday swirling away from here. And I saw here as an act of an everywhere’s nowhere, standing in waiting for the birth of a turn.
Her letter came and sat upon my hands unopened. And as I saw the letter, I saw her. Her words were strong and alive, yet they were crying to be freed. So she reached out to me that I might fling her out into another destiny. Yet knowing in flinging her I would be flinging myself. In to what path of where? I felt skin warmth and solid walls, and a continual slope that accepts all falls.
She was a child spoiled by fear, who reached my find, and as for breathing but a dying potential was her line. I felt myself with her smiling quietly in a gift. I felt her death jar time, flinging me clear with my line. I saw a time of blackness without a glow. What did I feel but a warmth, non-belonging and free, waiting to be found by me.
Can I believe in myself, shall I turn toward a darkness I can’t see? Shall I choose warmth as my next point in destiny? Do I hear the pain of warmth again murdered by a world’s penetrating fear? No, the warmth is clear and so is my care. To allow birth is all I’m allowed to know. And more, no matter its turn, I see myself belonging within that warmth.
An unanswered letter is an answered good-bye. And still I have to cry, as I do know, that to say hello, I have to say good-bye, an only truth of time eternal.
Knowing in beauty, knowing in pay, yet in knowing I have to turn.
Like children we greeted. As man and woman, we met in touch. And that drop of fear lay hidden, though remained near. That I speak of eternity in we reality, that she’d know what to hear. And she heard for we were together, touching, and clear in a joined aloneness. I heard our birth as we touched eternally, and in a sharing realized it so. Our cares were held strong and alone, as we were young, fresh, in these all-consumings for ourselves.
Time is weight,
and wrinkles the lines,
often screams for finds
from non-belonging lines
And however needed by a lost care -
A belonging for beyond the we,
has no place,
and must lie to stay -
If is born the need,
Is it but death, the only pay!
Friends, she said and though I did not need them, it is a principle of my life that I must believe in them. It is a world invading, my lady. It would be a lie for me to receive them. It has to be your play, though I know it is dragging you back into a timed world’s day. Come with me, did she say, keep me free, for I have to play. I’m fearful, as there is too much pain in our day. You need, and a need allows no freedom for a whole. As we were born whole and seeing. Give out a piece and so invades the world to our destruction.
Why? Are we so different? I’m sorry, my lady, but we are. Our WE was born against my shapings of eternity, to find time as our creation. We were not born of the world, for within their time, there is an always waiting for compromise.
I came home, and knew the waiting of its dimmed reflection. I climbed the stairs, believing her there, as she held the only key to this place of we. As I knocked against the door, I could feel my echoes return deep and empty. She was not there. She had gone walking with the world. I was locked out, and so what did I feel. In listening, I heard her far, and though she still retained traces of the we care, she had forgotten as not enough was there. I broke into the we that had been our home, for in being alone, I had no place to go. So, what do I feel? So, I speak to her. So, I speak to myself as I sit here alone. Do I cherish my love or the truth of the we? It is time for reality, we have to see so what we can be. And what is it to be. Birth or Death? That my love is only real within the we, as is. There is the only universe of its birth.
I awoke that morning alone, yet within me, she lay sleeping. I got ready to move through a day, in a body mechanically prepared to reap the world for its fruits of survival? My body moved unhampered, yet with each step, I felt the air grow more thin. But I forgot and hid for air within my body’s shadow of movement. Forgetting even still that there is no hiding within a shadow. Or maybe I remembered. When suddenly all was light, not immediately bright, yet beyond the shadow of any night. And I knew I wanted to see, and I knew that I had to see, as seeing is me. I lost the sound of my footsteps upon the ground. I was peaked within and then slowly above an earth’s showering obscuring clouds. I saw our birth, our life. And I saw our we lying in a crevasse being rejected by intruders. And she wanted to love me but she couldn’t. She asked me why, but what could I say, for I had seen our truth, its lines in double sway.
Just a void before the turn,
The air turns clear, and I can no longer not know. No trying and no more lying. Either we have the strength to be or, my Lady, they have already destroyed our eternity. All by too much mixing of time. There must be a find, and it must be whole, because it is.
That must I see - the turn itself!
With tomorrow as today, you can no longer pray for any god to intervene. And what is truth is what is seen. And though it destroys that dream for a dream, so only can we be clean enough to be what we’ve seen.
Continually Again …
(What am I)
And I stay here as an act of an everywhere’s nowhere, standing in waiting for the birth of a turn.
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