once I had a good friend

once I had a good friend tell me something
after I had just given him my last stand,
told him everything I thought I knew
in heavy breath without hesitation,
exactly why truly I don’t know anything but believe

he told me so what would you say then
to someone who will not believe in God,
and though feeling I would not say it (in) the best way
but maybe in the best way he might understand—
and not that he may be any different from you or me—

I told him there is a secret within the language he speaks,
it shows him how much he doesn’t know,
like planets and stars but only as far as the eye can see,
or the lines you forgot of a poem that hasn’t forgotten you:
an epistemology built out of worlds of words
so the greater sound surrounds, as though to capture every sky

and we all know what happens when we think we know something
but it isn’t true: we know no one likes that person—
may our honesty and grace shield us
from whatever sort of hell he’s in—whether he knows yet or no—
because what about that wicked lie that was flung in the air then,
the supposed articulations reverberating from our conscious,
like an old friend made bitter for no reason
dinning through the winds which would scowl at it
and every atom that would tear itself apart to be free from it—
what makes us so sure that they won’t come back to haunt us,
each and every one of those words and vibrations,
whether it’s more than the mythical long nose
or the ruins a former countenance
left in the shape of brows of worry and cheeks of disgust—
who can know when the physical ends and the meta begins

whoever wants to take the risk is free to
and we all might, to get ahead in this human race—
it’s our nature to want to excel
at these unseen pragmatics while we can,
as if we grab it with our bare hands out from the mind with just a flick of the wrist, or tongue—

but eventually we all want to go bed
and we won’t take just any bed,
never actually knowing if we’ll wake up
or where or with who or with what time left—

he smiled something of an I know what you mean
at the every pause I would make,
in-between every single, tiny, little thought we had together as I spoke
and he listened, and that melted into the room we were in until he fell asleep—

all we each want to say is really to the same effect:
only a dead nothingness could ever be truly alone
and just like friction brings in the heat and the connection,
we live to breathe into each other and save our own

because we won’t always have the energy
to make the conversion or the conversation last:
whenever there’s a need for an other,
there’s the will that always finds a way—

just like that feeling reaping what you’ve sown,
a better wor(l)d waiting on the tip of your tongue
even if you’ve never heard it spoken before—
or like what a pin prick takes away from the ocean

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