Remembering Your Ultimate WHY

by Theo Edmonds, Culture Futurist
A poem for those playing the infinite game.

What prayer was said over me?

A prayer that knew me better
than those attempting to knit
small words around an infinite frame.

A prayer untethered
to their names for me.
The names they used to move my tongue
into the propaganda of available air.
A limited relationship with the unknown.

Apprenticed to this day,
I come to it
through roots and stardust.

Apprenticed to this day
is stuff bigger than
a business case can hold.

A business case is not a liberation.
Liberation requires more.

More than exposed vulnerabilities
codified in the focused fears of the few.
The few who tether to their tiny threads
in their stitching of slipped seasons.

Tiny threads.
Tiny threads.

Their tiny threads
sabotage limp feet
from being the dancing.

That twirl of limitless air
is already lifting in tomorrow’s places.

Places of those who claimed their freedom
in open spaces.
Where tongues do not preach
to bend the limits of air.

It is the tomorrow of tongues
whose faith is shaped by the taste of an apple
(and freedom).

There is a velocity now
of a few marvelous days (for some)
breaking apart,
crashing into fluorescence.
Reflections muddled on industrial tiles
in drug store chain aisles.

That spot of ricochet.
That spot of ricochet.

That spot of ricochet (and loneliness)
where we make our pilgrimages
to replenish prescribed vibes
and batteries.

In that spot of ricochet,
we find grind,
intuit grit, and cause pause.
Insalubrious.

Over a put-upon shoulder,
we tug remembered attention.

Lost eyes in creased papers
held together by tiny threads.

Lost hearts in glittered things
laid out on metal shelving
propped forward by unstamped envelopes.

Unsure hands searching
for capable words
between creased papers.

Words that make the business case
…for forgetting to dance
…for not placing faith in the taste of an apple.

While paying for batteries
and gum,
we slide across the counter
a tiny thread or two.

The last things remaining
from slipped-away seasons.

Tiny threads.
Tiny threads.
Knitting around us,
tightening this spot of ricochet.

Even here, a prayer of possibility
is being said over us.
A prayer that knows us better
than those wanting to knit small words
around infinite frames.