Daniel, Forever Sliding

Water and electricity hold a common trait.
They both follow the path of least resistance.
.
.
A woodsy farm house hill flood.
Moving wet boxes
out of the pavement cold storage room.
That dank, mildew smell
that can only resemble cat piss.
They had drawn a tub
but had forgotten to turn off the water,
and went to rent a video.
The bottom fell out of the one his mother carried.
Daniel looked at a pile of photographs
and noticed the lives he hadn’t seen.
.
.
Lumped up lines
in a bathroom stall at a bar.
Daniel in the second one.
The toilet flushed six times
before the couple left.
Daniel saw, in that stall
trace whites
on top of the toilet paper dispenser.
He wet a square with the bowl water
and wiped the square along the dispenser.
And then we wiped himself.
Daniel, ear-marked fox,
wax-winged American,
purveyor of the acceptance binge
felt the greased force-love
of the sniffers.
He took four shots of Bulleit
and saw himself
in the cool sunrise on the river.
.
.
To be like water
is to be dimensionless and forever sliding,
dousing true fires,
whetting lips,
raising the hillside green-grove,
to seep and pool in collected force,
dripping against stark cliffside’s,
in the clear blue of the pool blue,
Daniel with Lloyd, pretending
they were synchronized swimmers,
stoned and throwing a ratty dark yellow tennis ball.
It skidding against the surface.
There’s a difference in
“being like water”
vs.
“being as water”,
Daniel noted.
And water, like electricity
or anything else for that matter,
can kill you.
And though,
this thought bored him,
he was not as bored by the thought,
that you can turn on all the lights
in the house before you fall asleep,
as Daniel did,
but when your eyes were closed,
they’re off.
.
.
She opened her jack-o-lantern
with a serrated blade.
The other girl pointed this out to her,
but the first didn’t know the difference.
Daniel cut into his with a long clean blade,
from a set his father bought
when he was eighteen.
He didn’t know the names of any of the blades.
He knew their uses.
The second girl decided to make hers spooky.
The first decided to make hers a self-portrait.
They asked Daniel what his plan was.
He said
“it would reveal itself”
and the girls looked at each other,
and synchronized, they rolled their eyes.
When they were done, they looked at Daniel’s pumpkin
He had carved the image of a large dog.
The dog was normal except for the wings.
They asked him questions.
Daniel didn’t listen.
He couldn’t hear their words,
over the sound of the water
rushing over his hands,
lapsed and drawing towards the center of the sink.
He had carved a hole in the pumpkins side,
enough space to mount a spare electrical outlet.
Without words,
the girls watched him wire the pumpkin.
He plugged it in.
They watched together
as the pumpkin began to glow,
giving their dorm room
without a candle or a bulb,
a hue of heaven’s orange.
Its wings began flapping.
The pumpkin broke through the kitchen window
and flew into the night.
.
.
Wet wood under boots
makes a satisfying half-crunch
makes wet splinters over wet stones
Daniel wants to be “like water”,
not to live as water.
Daniel reflecting in the world
as whatever type of light
was attracted and reflected to him
an endless series of mirrors within mirrors
forever in love with mutual recognizance.
Daniel saw friends swaddle themselves,
couples swaddle each other,
the young families he knew,
making one big swaddle too,
grandparents joining under the dry warm blankets,
aunts and uncles
cousins and neighbors
bound together
tight and secure in community
a home like a glove.
At the nature conservancy,
Daniel is watering the flowers,
Daniel waters the flowers,
Daniel watered the flowers,
Daniel there forever,
or, for a moment.
There’s no difference
as in being as yourself for ever
or being like yourself for a moment.
Daniel humming to himself in tune to the hum
of the lights above him,
Daniel finding harmony,
finding a tune,
Daniel a small voice under many drops of rain.

Daniel like water.

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