Notes: Yes, it's odd, quite odd. I have a habit of turning my school assignments into whatever I'd like them to be, and this is no different. We were told to write a journey poem. I wrote this.

Into/Between the Wall

I walk upon Wounded Knee
as I go
Into the wall
and out the other side.
The massacres
the blood
and everything in-between,
all in the space of that wall.
Yet on the other side is a room,
a plain and simple room,
an unassuming room,
a room with bookshelves.
As I walk upon Burnt Chimney
and the hardships of the feet
which have come before me
clear the path,
I am reminded once again
of the space between the wall,
of the dry dust and
wet desert sand that wasn't,
simply because
it was not allowed to be.
So many things
are not allowed to be.
But in the space between the wall they are,
as if they always have been,
as if they always will be,
as if, as if, as if.
A room, so plain and unassuming
after all this hate and pain.
My feet are prickled with the tiny desert stones
even though they have never met.
I am the one, the all, the great divide
as I walk inside that wall
between the fabric of space-time
that Einstein theorized about
that can never be seen
with what is merely called an eye,
but, with something else.
Walk among a wall
as if it were a person or
perhaps a long-forgotten coat
all full of dust and mothballs
that stink.
that stink that sets off fire alarms in the brain
and on the nine-one-one scared streets.
That happened once.
A feet, pitter patter, a feet.
my toe on the sharp stones
in the space between the wall
and my destination.
Cold dark hands
are touching upon my fever,
on the cold stones of fever,
as if cold dark hands can ease,
by touching my forehead,
the pain of many miles walked on dusty feet.
On dusty coats. On dusty roads,
brow-beaten tracks that lead off into the wilderness of time-space and
continue to insist on watery things
between the walls.
If only I could touch upon them and
greet them with my weathered feet/hands.
to say it is okay,
to say nothing of the journey.
Sallow and meek a coat hangs on my shoulders
in that space
between the wall
where they say dreams
can come true
but in reality it is only nightmares,
nightmares of the broken promises
and the broken knees.
The massacres, oh the blood on my hands
as I touch the wall and pass between.
It almost requires a certain tenacity to be found
only in the dead
(which is why only they can do it)
or in the crazy
which is well enough for me.
Oh, that name which I may not speak,
for it is as Voldemort to the minds of those around me, and twice as bad
despite its leave-takings.
In the room with the bookshelves it is,
all sallow-faced and reclusive,
all promises and broken man,
all that is that will never be.
In the place between the wall.
Hold a hands
in a feet
for a dusty broken man
who sits in that room
all alone
with only the bookshelves
to keep him company.
Isn't that sad?
But then
come I through the wall
to the place beyond between
where the cat lies
and the dust settles around the books
as if forever touching
that boundary between the books
where the walls are
and where I walk on desert stones.
for there is a man,
all sallow-faced and coat, all death
and destruction
without ever lifting a finger.
Look more,
look deeper, look
where the walls break and crumble
to see the place of long-ago forgotten.
There you will find it, all shriveled and dry,
to think it could have blown away with the dust
had it not so firmly taken root
and planted. Yes,
there is the place.
All sallow coat, hung out to dry,
hung out to wring
in the hot burning pesticide of the sun.
Herbicide. Fungicide. Acrid biting burning smells.
Like mothballs in a dusty coat
and sallow-faced men
all wrapped up
inside themselves,
forever building walls,
forever touching walls,
forever, ever, ever, as if
they could escape.
Yet here I walk
between the walls,
and not around,
but through them.
Is that in there truth?
Am I that sun? beating down upon the hearts
of hate and pain and
yet unitable
yet malleable
yet putty in my hands.
those hands
that touch
upon the walls
of time-space,
inasmuch as
hands may touch
their cold and gilded fingers intertwined
amongst the roses
on the hegemonic crux
of the windowsill so imposed
by hegemon.
But shy from the light and away, for touching
is to moondrops as raindrops. And all are one
in this place between the walls.
There but for the grace of He go I,
where He may be any of a number of men,
and quite a few women. All
seek their own permissions
thrust upon the yoke of burdened traveling children
who could care less
and often do
and rarely listen,
Marching onward through the stars in the wall.
Yet still that room remains, all dust and cotton and mothballs and sallow-faced man
as if waiting for gilded touch
to solidify on jilted shoulder
as mine oft wants to do.
or on hot-tempered forehead,
as fathers to daughters,
as teachers to students,
as separate but equal becomes the doctrine of the moment.
as there is no other solution.
But for the pains in the eye, as those who have seen
and lived to tell about it
are wont to reveal to knowledge
and understanding.
None of which matter
all outside the wall
and all of which are malleable
once inside the room.
So truths become falsehoods,
and falsity ceases to be,
for there in that room of bookshelves
and vine-encrusted window,
of soaring height and
soft windy breeze in book pages,
and the spaces between the wall
all open to the touching of the will
to be planted,
There is he. My coat, my sandal.
My sunhat.
All and none, eternity and everything,
in the spaces between the wall
which we walk between
and not through, for
time-space is fragile
and cannot be disturbed at the time.

If you go out the window and up the wall, there is a little outcropping where you can look out and see the world and it will not see you. So this is where we head when I ask to go somewhere. It is one of the few places where I cannot go alone, for I cannot walk up, only left and right and forwards and back. One must fly to go up. I once asked if I home was someplace I could walk to and was told that home was up and that I could not walk to it. So this is a piece of walking up outside the window and up the wall. Then that is where I will call home and answer, and from there to the walls path a beat. We have a saying: "dzrutai, dzrutai," which means everything and nothing and totality. But here there is no dzrutai, only backwards and forwards and left and right. Up the wall it is different. In the wall it is the same, all directions and no reason. I'll gaze out at the countryside and think of going down, since that option is open to me. But I'll need my coat and glasses to get there safely. Before, behind, and in front of the wall, but never to it. Inside it.

There you will find the pathway,
that beaten, broken
desert pathway,
which mine and many feet have trampled before,
all through the cacti and cattle
and trailblazers who have left no room to dream
on account of their insatiable unquenched thirst
to bring order to a world which we cannot fathom.
The only place left to go is into/between the wall.