walkingheartbeat

walkingheartbeat

Night time beckons as the sun sets; it’s semi-permanent, like a purplepink rinse….inset to black back to back night and day, it’s time to play.

I dunno, but that’s the time for me I think. Blink and you’ll miss it for sure.

I like the verge of the horizon, rising stars fading into a sparkly glitter that pulsates pulsars and quasars, planets colliding into my open eyes that see nothing but imagine what I conjure into tomorrow.

I had this dream the other night. It was weird, lots of zombies eating each other’s flesh, enmeshed in a feast of corpses clamoring for the chance to survive again, dead. I woke up thinking to myselfishmess, “what the fuck Tran?” I spent my waking moments trying to backtrack into dreams of something less like shredded dread…but I couldn’t get the smell of rotting out of my closed eyes. There’s sometimes no goodbyes, just a forward meander into a slumber-filled waking daze.

But yah, being back in the village I am missing my night-time hikoi on the sand meets the moana…a boy and her poi…flick flick flick my wrists into some thumping beatz….they’re eating away at me; leaving my soul bared to the wind that rips my skin into neatly folded retrofittings that I used to wear, but are no longer the fashion.

Fusion of yesterday and next year, that’s the shit betch!
It’s funny to think that I couldn’t even spin my poi a few months ago, and yet now they’re like the spider’s limbs that weave me believing in living again. And again, I have to confess that it all has been happening under the cover of darkness. It all hearkens back to the days when instead of walking the beach, listening to the glissando of the waves that crash passion into my gliding arms as they play the music of the moana, I instead rode my bike into the drunken roamings of “something is definitely up with than blimmin kid …we should’ve sent him to boarding school in Auckland.”

I kid you not. It’s a whole other rhythm these days and to be honest, even though I think I can figure the configured rising pitch and fall from grace, I can finally keep the pace, maker of the olden days before I lived this life I have now, when the world was all steaming mudpools, waka taua spinning mere slicing carcasses of their necessary components; a new moment in time.

Today I am getting really good at the poi.

Dare me

Dare me

I have been wondering, as I wander the beach at night in search of the core, listing to and fro…what does aroha look like? I listen to the waves; sometimes they have an answer or two, but I have to drown out the poi rhythms that fill my head so that I can let the perpetual push and pull me into a breathless imagining…am I crowning joy or just a little boy again?

I don’t know for sure because that river looks like it is flowing to a whole other ocean’s boring me to tears the hair from my head as I shriek and howl at the moon to wake me up in a hollow shell that I remember being familiar.

I’ll never find heaven in my aging body.

But yah, gender issues aside, or maybe not, I feel like I need to find the answer, because I feel like I should know the shape of aroha. I know so many shapes and I can tell what they mean, but this dream is elusive. It slips through my fingers as I sip the grains of blackened sand through my toes. The throes of love? Throw them into the waves as they crash, a placenta of seaweed and life on speed burning my nostrils of breathable air, suffocating the life that I once had out from the cracks, plunging myself awake as I shake off the fading memory.

“It’s all in the past” I keep thinking, as I sink into the grains of glitter. There is no future, and if that be the case then the shape of aroha must be in the now. But I can’t see it.
I keep turning my head because I imagine it must be somewhere, buried in the shallow quicksand that laps at my feet, drawing me ever into the void, where I wander in wonderment.