Endings
Martin Bush

The end is only the beginning?
No thank you.
I want no clouds billowing in harmonic respectability, no vapid vapors nor ceaseless lingering. Neither will I be subdued by litanies of fire, empty threats, sanctioned suffering for sinful sensuality. Shall I make of myself a stone and grind away at time? Should I trudge past a banquet smothered in restraint, sew shut my eyes, seal tight my ears? Should I wait? Should my only joy be the exit for the next life? Escape into afterlife?
No thank you.
Do not populate my fears and hopes with a panoply of petty personalities. No pantheons. I’ve no need of a voice in every bush and a soul in every river, the ardor of life beyond legion, beyond counting, beyond comprehending, reduced. Reduced, reduced why? Must I categorize, organize, judge with my eyes rather than my heart and gut? I’ve no need to wrap my tiny mind around the infinite and call it tamed, no need to give each happenstance and circumstance a name, referenced and indexed and defined. Rigidity. Structure. Illusion.
No thank you.
Endless dreaming? Perhaps, if surcease from thought is complete. If all that I am and could be would dissolve into color and space and whirling whorls of impossibility. Not possibility. Potential is the crux. There can be none of it.
No mechanics please. No extensions. I’ll pass on the plastic beating and the rhythmic clicking, sliding, sucking, the pull of oil and electric snap of bitter copper. I need heat. I need curves and flexing, furrowing, drooping skin. I need the crack of sinew and creak of bone. Leave me my inefficiencies. Leave me my flawed facsimiles of machines sculpted in fiber and fat, collagen and keratin. Let me devour all of life, all its sweet pains and solemn joy until it devours me. Perpetual proliferation and metallic sterilization?
No thank you.
No monuments. No plans, nor plinths, nor spiraling spires of soaring ego. No quotes or captions on page or screen. Let rest my shadows and my echoes, keep quiet the lost lyrics of my limited lamentations and well-deserved celebrations. Unfriend me. Delete me. I’ve no need of mistaken generations emboldened by specious histories, delusions of continuity. I’ve no time nor space for strangers outside my time, my space, who would judge; mistaking old mistakes for updates to the same repeating headaches. I had no prefix, only the core, a substance, this body, brief and bright and unrepeatable. Suffix?
No thank you.
Now I live. Now I breathe. Now I break bread and kneel in shame. I feel the sun char my flesh, the rains dampen my hair. Embrace, with ebullient joy, the rhythm of all that means something. It has meaning. It does. It means something because it could be nothing, because it’s lost, transitory; delicious in its fragility and inevitable lethality. Let it in. Feel the joys of others, yes, and make safe their hopes. Yes! Become divine, forgive, give, protect and save. Sacrifice! Seven billion grains of sand, each a universe moving, thundering, grinding, wailing, running, sliding towards the end. Do not tarry. Do not grasp and clutch. Feel. Feel the web that is our fear and hope and love, pulled taut and world-thick between each and all and strum your tune upon its strings. Feel the vibrations returned. There is no I, only us. We are now. Here.
Yes. Thank you.
Closure. Make it sudden. Surprise me.
Let me go. Release. Let the insects nip a thousand pieces from my flesh and carry away the DNA of me into their burrows and bowels. Let roots draw forth my sweet innards and feast upon my red rivers. Scatter me to the winds and wilds and let my soul dissipate, disintegrate and like tears evaporate, to become one of everything and nothing. No direction, no cohesion. Made anew and destroyed forever. Let the world sing of my absence with silence and praise my gentle passing with songs of indifference. Move on. Let the sweet calm of night become everything I could be or would have been; cradle me in oblivion. Give me mute dissolution, less than a fading whisper. There is no fear here, only expectation. Only acceptance. Give me endings.