Tag Archives: Daniel Johnston

the why of cry

10 Aug

It is me, melting.

The trigger of tears is never far

because I have come to live outside my skin

where the spillage from the sun, the changeable weather of you,

the  smoke from the burning pages of my story,

you, just the closeness of you – all of you who let me in –

has me sliding into your flames as I begin to go.

I am a messy ghost,  bubbling up, spilling out,

rising up,

away from black clouds – I swirl

toward light.

There has been time for work,

to put things in order,

to file, to box, to scrub the bottom bin in the fridge,

and there has been time to make linger,

to waste in bed, on chairs, unshowered, undressed, messed.

There is no sense in crying out:

the god king’s fallen into chunks and dust,

the goddess lost herself in unseemly sex,

the fairies are hidden with good reason, and

friends require words for telling.

My tears have not yet learned to speak.

This is what is left:

the calendar

the sunlight

the rain

the roaring in my ears

the devil in the woods.

Can you comprehend this scientific explanation on the phenomenon of tears?

Sprinkle your questions on my cooling embers –

the sizzle and smoke on bone are clear enough;

it’s all I’ve got.



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