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A snake-skinned umbrella (solitude)
By Jordan Chaney
Well, I don’t feel so alone that I talk to myself, but all of my conversations feel like soliloquies at times. I have a tendency to talk too much.
Solitude to me is an empty and rusted canteen in the desert whose threaded lips beg the cactus for a sip, a kiss. Solitude is a kiss puckered and blown at no one into the thin air where echoes hide, in between the ribs of the wind, and it howls because it is hollow where it longs to be full. It’s a broken mirror, like puzzle pieces that are all one color and scattered playfully over the span of time and all over the vastness of the universe, waiting for the lone traveller to collect its shards and realize its awe-striking reflection is found in everything. Solitude is a joyful swimmer floating on his own back in a sea of his own tears—it can be rest.
Imagination is a clear blue sky where I fly reveries like kites, I have more time to wonder and wander… I take long walks through skeletal trees and, kicking orange and yellow leaves across cracked sidewalks, I think of thoughts that would’ve never been thought up had the feeling for the need of others never rotted.
Something blossoms in the pottery of solitude. Your stucco smooths itself out; gardeners know. But, I see myself rolling my shoulders forward and scratching my own back against a door jam and extra trips carrying my groceries inside though I am saving money on tea so my money steeps in my wallet longer.
I see myself standing on cypress mountaintops, shimmering just as green. I’m pushing to put my own sol in solitude by polishing myself against the extra pillows in my bed. An abundance of wine; my bedroom transformed into a harem without fine silks, just random women of all shapes, sizes, occupations and shades—I slip their lampshades off like lingerie, I’m good at it. Nothing lonelier than being covered in panties that I didn’t buy, the fast lasses that abound my bachelor pad though.
All paths lead to enlightenment, eventually… I tell myself.
I kick fall leaves into midair and hope that my old skin sheds half as gracefully. I’m juggling the engagement ring that she gave back, rediscovering my pineal gland and the fear of being alone—it’s a three-ringed-circus. Speaking of which, my chakras are aligned like the Leaning Tower of Pisa and at night I stare at Polaris staring back at me. Truthfully, we’re all rock stars against the stark black stages of night, Metallica’s “One” stuck in my head. I picture tears doing their damnedest to pressure wash a muddy frown into a sparkling smile.
A person in solitude is a boulder standing in a storm long enough to let the raindrops carve them into their own David, marvel at your own marble it says, or be washed away in grief’s wide-mouthed storm drains. Quiet places are the perfect launch pad to rise from your own ashes. Hook your talons into the meat of the clouds and ride the skies, shove your beak into the sun’s bright orange belly button and eat her up. Make her rain. Pound your chest at the storms. Smash all windows if they don’t advertise your reflection. I see a mannequin on display envying my newfound animation.
Solitude is utter surrender to yourself, the only doorway or meditation that makes it possible to grow wings and see things as they really are, as you really are. My solitude terrifies me sometimes, my pillows could be sponges the way that I cry, the silence is haunting, it might as well be a blood-curdling scream in the middle of the night, I’m not used to my own snore, yet it’s a monster in the closet for all I know. I miss her round ass pressing against my hip every night; it was the anchor that allowed me to drift off to sleep and set sail away from the sandy shores, surely she had waves at her beck and call the way she would pitch and roll—I miss that chocolate-colored mole on her right butt cheek.
Solitude is coming to grips with the bullhorns of an overactive imagination, the reckoning of a heart shattered into countless memories and the futile mission of finding glue in a dozen mistresses. Everything is so damn spiritual, even the toaster is designed for transcendence! I’m surrounded by hope subliminally from all angles, therefore I choose to stand stubborn and perpendicular in the storms, a prickly prick, my lips puckered like the threads of a canteen while courting the plumpest cactus in love’s scorching paradise.
My canteen, my teacup. Solitude can be divine polish.
Dear Water Walkers,
There once was a man sitting in perfect union with all, with God, with universe. He sat in the full lotus, in deep meditation while in a storm—a real torrential downpour—and not one drop of rain disturbed him. A large cobra had acted as Buddha’s umbrella while his consciousness steeped in the divine; in his solitude he found true connectivity and calm, ultimately self-love. True love. All paths lead to enlightenment, eventually, I tell myself, and deep down I know that paths like these must be walked alone.
About Jordan Chaney
Jordan Chaney is a spoken word poet residing in Eastern Washington’s wine country. He writes for Winepress Northwest and is the author of two books: Double-Barreled Bible, a collection of urban poems that blends Eastern and Western philosophies, and Rocket Fuel for Dreamers, a collection of poetry written to inspire, uplift and motivate. He currently teaches a poetry and communication skills workshop called Speaking from the Pen at a local juvenile detention center and alternative schools, helping youths find their voices through the power of language. Speaking from the Pen promotes confidence, creativity and communication through performance poetry.To book Poet Jordan Chaney for workshops, performances or speaking engagements, email: jordanchaneypoet@gmail.com
