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How now folding always at 90 degree angles we are fleshy automatons marching to the drone. Oh to soar when there is no such thing as “too high”. Led to a door made of dough and thought we bar our own entry to paradise, tumble between netherworlds half out of our minds, muttering incoherently about the inherent injustice in being a wash, bleached and dried, tarred and feathered.
I got fried, standing in a crater on the sun.
It felt all right, it could do no wrong.
I’m sorry you caught me here,
writing this song.
Let us not, I say, eliminate indulgence-
oh, never that!
That look is getting in my eyes and
sticking its pinky in my brain.
Count your lucky beans we were made for all extremes.
We are walking off the years, shrugging our shoulders and tears.
Too late you take note of the pandemic in your mind. Don’t be a buzzkill now- chin up! Zesty you are saucy like whoa. And I crept into your veins and swam to and fro. My dear sweet intoxicant, mind the headbeams and look me in the eye. Wordless I answer your cry with a sigh. Together we were hot blue fire, until I found you scheming with my dear friend, Desire. Her eyes shone pure jade evil, and I tripped, letting all the cats out of the bag, then pulled the song out of the high note, scooped it down and over your mouth. My voice froze and crystallized in the air between our eyes.
These are the questions of the damned which spring forth unbidden in the nexus of fear, your shadowed undoom. I am left to ponder the circumstances of my casual existence. There is intensity alone in all the bones of my neck and spine.
Forgotten, we would cease to wonder why we ever cared so much in the first place.
I punched the uncertain mouth, walked on eggshells and cared to mention, hurtled through a darker dimension making faces hurling my guts out at the immortal womb of sky. Afterwards, I crawled to bed and under the blanket, fetal and unsung. This was the first time, but not the only one.
She told me half the business of forgetting is writing a new script for your mind. The other half is letting go.
My brain is out of breath, I am gasping airless space, willing myself into existence. The will is stifled out of creativiy. Bugged out and free all of me will fade away to grey.
Desires.
One.
To slow this unstoppable desire for heat. To relax in warmth and peace, to feel steady on my feet. I am searching your eyes for the truth. I am daily letting go, it’s just taking longer than expected. But these are not your feet, this is not your seat. This is the poet’s beat, and I come here to this page intent on distinguishing fact from fiction. I don’t remember anything I’ve ever said, so distracted by the chaos in my head, chanting my fate verbatim. It is honest writing I seek, it is only honest writing I know.
Two.
To eradicate culturally-encoded values, to become mindful and aware, to see the truth beneath the veneer. To make contemplation a habitual response. Deep listening, going in further, exploring the crevices of curious things. I support an alternative method of writing, one that involves mere recording of mindbeats as they stamp circulatory trails across the mind.
Three.
Rigorous avoidance of sentiment and the obsessive paths of the brain. Man is creature of habit, woman is creature of obsession. I do not support femininity as defined by weakness, inferiority, threatening, tempting, vain, sedentary, woe-is-you.
Four.
To be relatively unremarkable; to be surrounded constantly by remarkable people. To actively engage in the business of life. This is fantastically uninteresting. How did I get here? Reflecting on desire indeed! I need to be busy I believe to be happy at all. Preposterous. Oh, salubrious. Picture yourself a homeowner. Ludicrous. Ridiculous. I will be a student. Discomfort is sharp and pointy.
While “one-heartedness” is celebrated in Bwiti, it is a one-heartedness which is coagulated out of a flow of many qualities from one state to another. It is goodness in the presence of badness, and aboveness achieved in the presence of belowness. Is is an emergent quality energized in the presence of its opposite.
A half-life of boredom and half-empty cups. I think not. Not this instant when I cannot ask for more nor for anything else. Wait a second, this is just everything ever asked for! What is it you’re thinking of right before you fall asleep at night? What mysteries are locked in dreams?
And the tender tissues of the heart swell with the blood of tears. As such, we cannot help but be utterly terrified. Let us then work relentlessly on the tiresome task of learning to not-need, that we may one day be free of desire. May we first learn the value of play, and come to know it before we grow old too early. I leave deathly stillness standing at the altar, compose silent adulations of strength, and make believe I hear the
(beat)
trickling down the wall.
I want to put a bounce in your step as you walk out the front door in the mornings. I yearn for the simplest of small affections. Your are manic and fired, all-engrossing. I am standing wide-eyed in the middle of the road as a storm barrels down. I do not fear death, just the absence of life. The difference between birds and bees lies in the sting. How to make each other well? How many ways do I adore you? The only answer I have to give is “like this, and infinite”. And I am feeling infinite.
the dirty colours of her kiss have just throttled
my seeing blood, her heart’s chatter
riveted a weeping skyscraper
in me
i bite on the eyes’ brittle crust
(only feeling the belly’s merry thrust
boost my huge passion like a business
and the Y her legs panting as they press
proffers its omelet of fluffy lust)
at six exactly
the queen tore
two slits in her cheeks. A brain
peered at the dawn.
She got up
with a gashing yellow yawn
and tottered to a glass bumping things.
She picked wearily something from the floor.
Her hair was mussed, and she coughed while
tying strings
(e.e. cummings)
I live inside myself, I am
pushing through-
Do you think I cry at night?
I am shrieking with delight,
feverish & high, biting eyes and twitching mouth.
Darling, I crave crystal and fire,
hot-blooded desire,enchantment.
Activate the sensory depth and
the fervent fields of the imagination.
I pledge nonallegiance to the smirks of quite nearly retarded squares; and to all the fascists, for what it’s worth, this nation, at arms, with peaceloveandfreedom for none.
How to sing out the sequence of dreams drawn out, played out on my eyelids? Racing cars made of brocolli falling from trees. This is a fruit of a song- tang on your wet lips. Now, tug my insanity cord. Go ahead, do it.
the heat is smushing my brains.
social interaction has become a chore.
i wish i were snuggling right now.
Tonight, the sun is lowering herself into the distant hills with a sigh. The sky is streaked with pink, like my cheeks flush with wine. Somewhere to the east a bullfrog is croaking. I am formulating plans, hatching ideas, crafting escape routes. The greatest distance between who you are and where you have been is the proximity of the stiches on your heart. I knit this time close. I am who I am. Rejoice.
alone and at home i am terrified of the monsters inside. my tongue probes gingerly at a morsel of infinity wishing for one of the thousands of delights that exist between heaven and earth. finally the waltz and the fiery urge, tell me your wishes before i emerge out into a dawning a rushing unfolding- the coffeepot’s done and the rainclouds are holding. we’ll hold out our wrists and bleed willingly for it’s too much to bear to pretend not to see.
Slow how you go now, I am a kitten most easily frightened and disarmingly curious. Chaos will kiss you often enough, so I love you much most beautiful silent solitude. Full health returns to my sharpened cheeks and determined legs (my temples sweat nostalgically).
My feet have hardened. During the day, I speak in baby-talk and give away copious amounts of stickers to beautiful children and refuse to feel sad for their sake. In the afternoons, I drink cold white wine and read, ceasing only to write and speak in love-talk. My weekends are for friends and lovers and generally others.
(mine is a good life I like it very much thank you for coming)
At moonlit midnight I rock slowly in my hammock, feeling small beneath the star-speckled sky, singing softly. Redemptively.
today i sat in a sweltering classroom encouraging meghan to put erasers on pencils and those pencils in tubes. her hands were shaking and she broke into laughter every time i told her how good she was working. in the background, the teacher and psychologist argued about her heatedly even though she was in the room and can sense tension and knows when you’re talking about her, and i hear,
…you send me a 20-year old college student with no experience and no degree to try and help a child who’s not going to change…”
and yet, they’d never seen her keep her attention on task for so long, or play the way she did at the end of the day.
so there, motherfuckers.
may i have the serenity to accept what i cannot change, the courage to change what i cannot accept, and the wisdom to know the difference.
to become what i am, to know who “we” is, to be naked as much as possible, to let desires flow through me and pass, to lie upon cool grass, to craft my body lean and strong, to know the extent of my own worth, to always listen for the wisdom of others, to sing and dance and bust out rhythms, to love in excess and without demands, to never complain,
to make amends.
to be continued.
Reflecting on the whooping cranes and triceratopses I found it delightning that the 3-D pop-up of the mind etched meaning into the shaded edges. Deprived into security? Deprived into security?!?! Give me nothing but a happy ending, let me off the hook, so we can join hands and sing and fuck each other in the after-life, a wet rippling orgy of non-protection. Keep love safe, secured, tied with bondage rope to the leisurely pace of the mediocre day. Hope! Hoooope!!! I wish it had been me falling apart, dissecting my own bloody organs and tissues with tweezers, hands fueled by speed and raw desperation. I wish I could fall apart again into my subsequent past lives and moments of clarity. My body is a caged animal pacing, wishing to roar but stifled by the muzzle of pure singularity. This solitude is nearly too much to bear. I bear the fruit of my gasping lungs in the muscles of my thighs. I bare my thighs around the fruit of gasping you. Please now I was not meant for oh
but it is
But it is all right- sunlight and ripened fruit, tattered pages and my dream-filled, lovesick mind. Oh it is all right, all right. There are purple flowers scattered all around.
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