Songs by Six Fingered Men (p.s. this is serious shit)

Are there really songs that can only be played by six fingered men?

Are there really tones in a man’s voice, inaudible to the feminine ear?

Is there a yogi somewhere, naked, hidden in the frigid Himalayas, unaware of his own levitation?

The relativity of the speed of light…

The guttural utterances in a whale song, a song they will remember, always…

To love.

Is to love to sacrifice?

To admit you are smaller, less important than the love you would do anything, give up anything, understand anything for. Is that love?
I am looking at this pinky on this hand attached to this arm dangling from this body housing this soul, and I’m thinking ‘I would give this up for you. I would give it to you. It is given. It is yours.’ And I believe.

Water seven miles deep. Water so thick with itself, not even light can pass through. That’s transformation. The metamorphosis of a liquid that is solid in our mind. Things are never what they seem.
But I believe.

I was dressed in the old ways of my old days to match the old things, the feelings I used to feel which felt the same. I was walking out of a gas station, two packs of cigarettes in my hand, feeling very nihilistic indeed, but the sky stopped me, abruptly. And I would be poeticizing, but not exaggerating to say, that the luminescent polychromatic clouds unfastened themselves in the most revelatory of ways, and hidden in the darkening blue behind, God revealed its face to me. Life was. Life was so much bigger than me. And I believed.

Anne Sexton said, “Need is not quite belief.”
But belief is need. It is answered to. It is not to be reckoned with. It is to be stood in awe of. Genuflected in awe of, because it is nothing and it is everything. Because it is nothing, it is everything.
And I believed.

They say that when a suicidal resigns them self to their imminent auto-facilitated demise, a deep and complete peace over takes them, envelopes them in the pacification of a drama nearly spent. Problems disappear, because problems will soon disappear. Problems always disappear. So why can’t we live in an eternal state of pre-suicide? A state of near death? A state of impending release?
Because we are not resigned.