on waves we fly… and particles root. the oldest physicist’s question. but which the answer? 42 (laugh) or 4’33’’ (cry). do we spend our lives building mechanisms through which to realize the question? death is no cage / life. nor word. nor its fine partner.

two months ago, an event that marked today. strange that, strange that.

i bucked. that is, I bucked with my sister. with her aid. we fell through the light bright night tucked under the eaves of foreign highways, rats roaming in sweet gangs. we were. simply so.

and the fellow screaming at us to be mindful. Ha! mindful – like he knew what, really What, that was (and we were. simply so). of all the danger (he was speaking about death, wasn’t he? the desired live cage what we love. to hold time tight inside / safe. the oldest urge to safe[hold] our value. but my new value releases), he would protect us from.

after a night of it, walking. slipping away into the silence that clearly clearly denoted the absence of control (voices yelling at us to not die, not die, not die…). we found a dead bluebird. really. ask my sister if my words aren’t strong enough. we found it as we parted the white columns of rock-ocean to my home (temporary, temporary). i almost stepped on the poor little blue corpse, almost mashed its skin and bones to bloodied pulp. but i didn’t.

“poor little thing.”
“poor little thing.”
“poor..

we discussed moving it. off the pathway. let's. it looks so alive in its death. lying flat on its back with its head twisted, the parted beak. legs cracked and furled like small desert creatures. “let’s move it” we said. (i was swaying a little, just slightly drunk, some spin to that pathway, some movement of my sister’s sad face looking down.)

i bent down. my hand wavered, but no, that was me (drunk as sin). ran my finger down its broken chest, twisted claws, not touching it. “let’s move it,” she said. and so i reached my hand underneath.

it took off.

i swear i screamed so loud i'm surprised the guard didn’t come and whistle at us from his post under the light-cone. and then ali and i, looking at each other, mouths parted, arms unfurled like some wave opening.

“what the fuck,” [pithy statement from sis], “was that?”

that. was a blue bird, not dead, not dead at all, not even the slightest of deads. absolutely notdead (not even broken!). now perched on the pathway columns we only thought we had parted.

“why,” [pithy statement from me], “did that happen?”

the answer is two months off. here it is: wave particle silent spoken caged-belonging free. my story fits like the other truth. how unexpected. i'll just leave it here, and it’ll find its way.