Talkin Like We Rockin
When they told us we were sinners, you laughed and said “a profound truth of the human condition,” and I laid on the cement and made half hearted attempts at piety, you were silent as a stone lying next to me, and I still never felt any sin in me. Sometimes our conversations became cluttered with chlorine and the colors that we saw in the black, but clarity was never a priority, cause you could sing the night into coherency.
A few weeks later, I saw a boatmaker riding the cross-spar of his mast in an outer Lamu village, tying ropes and fastening hopes, carrying the non-sin of the world on his spacious shoulders. My feet were sinking slowly in the sand-mud of the low-tide boatyard as we stared at the man uncrucified on his mast, Yesu reconsidered, life before life and death became opposites—original unsin.
One afternoon we’re in the sea in a storm, and with our heads underwater we can hear the rain hitting the surface of the sea, scratchy and smooth, and you say it sounds like that exact moment when the needle hits the vinyl. The way you talk like music turns me still, you leave me silent and filled to the brim, we spilling over like running cups, this is the thrill of making it up as we go. And I would listen to you 'til you were tired of all forms of elocution and collapsed into silence, collapsed into silent revolutions of the mind like the nightly evolutions of the moon, 'til you closed in upon yourself like a darkening night.