Not Knowable? We Are All Knowable.

Everyone wants to spin some film of unknowable-ness into the atmosphere; a small illusion of unreadable personal text.  Hide behind your warped glass windows where the light is always ochre and the shapes are cubist, moving with the shadows like sharp rattling maracas.  Hips may move like snakes and feet like swimming Olympians; wear an anomaly of skin to disguise the color of sun in your blood and you may yet be known by your efforts at concealment itself, at obfuscation, which is like a fingerprint in the atmosphere of your perfume.

The full picture is a mosaic of skin and moss, of memory and this velvet second in which you are slinking into the shadows where you think I can't smell you, see you with my blind eyes, and locate you against the wall of your own naked spirit.  You think the dark protects, that a spirit is an escape artist and an enigma rather than being earthy and fragrant like sandalwood burning tired eyes and flecking the atmosphere with resinous wishes. 

Where a graceful turn of hand catches the light and a curve of foot brings down a mountain there is something like exhalation, like the quelling of insatiable insensible rage hissing in the dregs of fire where hands have brought retribution, a justice of air, all meant to stupify with the bones of love.  Bring down the mountain with this strength of intention like the whisper of a mother to a baby, milky breathy love layered with steel and iron crusting like a crouching beast at the edges of a photograph, hardly seen yet potently felt. 

Not knowable?  You are knowable.  Everything you say, every choice you make, every direction you run, and every crumb of life you savor, and every detail you secret away in your locked rooms tells a story to anyone who is completely awake to you.  You are a creek running to ocean and every eddy describes an obstruction, every rapid has a cause and directs your course mathematically.  You are numbers.  I can describe your skin with equations.  You are matter and there is everything to know in it; the timber of your voice, the moments when your eyes light with fight or dim with pain the way the earth shivers in a frigid dusk.  The way your liquid limbs decide to catch here in the dark, alert, on the defensive, bunched and tense. 

Not knowable?  We are all knowable. 

I believe that if you're watching, if you're awake to my rushing water reaching for the ocean at a mad pace you will find my soul in my punches.  Unceremonious and ripped up with fat and sweat, perhaps you see only one layer, one dimension of sound.  I know that I am transparent when I send my fist out with all the power of the past, the helplessness of a childhood of fear and violence, the years that have layered one upon another into a crushed tapestry of ragged frayed threads. I am pulling them all in, tying the knots and shedding invisible kisses to the bruises, the cuts, the retching wounds and blue heart.

We are all knowable.  Is this so bad?  Is it so frightening that you tell me so much in what you try to conceal?  Is it so awful to have you see into my muscles, into my ribs, through my scalp still numb from the hair being grabbed and all my weight bearing it down into a thousand pinpoints of follicle anguish while I hung by my hair when I was seven?  Is it so bad to know each other?

I am not afraid.  There is nothing you can uncover that I haven't already uncovered myself and seen fly off on vulture wings in the harsh light of day.  What can you see that is worse than what I've seen myself?

Yet listen, gentle spirit, I would remind you that no matter which secrets I am capable of unearthing with the spade of thought and the anvil of metal sight, there will always be parts of you I cannot reach unless you will it.  There is no complete vision without you giving it.  I say I can see into your heart through your eyes, like windows I can open in my sleep, I can know you, and this is true.  Yet there is always and always more.  You  need not obfuscate or lay traps.  There is always something more, unseen.

There is always and always more.