I remember my life in photos.
I ran toward the sun and almost touched the flame- If I can make it come, why can't I make it change? I needed it before I even knew I needed it.
None alone in this world. Slipping is actually climbing. Limitless potential. Internalize this. Loved endlessly. Valued unconditionally. Internalize this.
The barking circulation of mildewed air,
The tantalizing sound of regret
Stretches into a smoking hole of empty shadow-
Hoping we all go up in flames.
I lay half hidden in mesh thicket, suffocating.
Something is harbored and hidden in autumn's sunless haze.
It's hard to untangle something with no discernible start or end.
Rushing tides won't rush fast enough-
just a slow jarring pace of tension,
quick bursts of rapid fire, metallic ice
Time moves irregular, broken beats,
The lack of fluidity bites my reddened skin.
Everything is leaning most irregularly.
So cold, the snow burns
The gate creaks a creeping bellow
Hearing movements inside reverberate outside and in again.
The present (is) moves(ing) backwards (forward) as the past (is moving) moves forwards (backward).
You chose what to fill your mind with.
Reminders, open flame,
about a rose without a name.
The silence comes and silence goes,
Creeping now, the sign of foes.
The tremendous faith of fellow sojourners is mind boggling. The intricate manipulations which unknowingly (unwillingly) create our formal existence (whether abstaining from some deeper truth or not...) The ink runs too candidly in a current state of closed of malignance. This precious incarnation was far altered. Can't listen to my soul in front of anyone else.
It's an encapsulated waste, this flesh extraction of pure metallic insight!...The ache comes not from the extraction, but from the relocation. Ground up and aching, this roof cannot stand a solid foot- the solidness comes not so much from arbitrary endeavors but from the escalated prospect of such in our minds.
Intravenus tiger lily petals falling like rain plugged from the sky. The mystic fortification is all and more than it needs to be. Freedom is relative, and the senses dictate far more than we perceive.
These words are cryptic because they need to be. The one eyed leery bug has resurfaced and I cannot allocate enough energy to the purpose of it's well being. The well being of another far too often impinges on my present state of well being.
Wish I had that Grandma's quaint kitchen, warm with the smell of fresh pastries and sweetness lingering in the air. Everything warm, unthreatening, enveloping. A room with frilly pink kitchen knick knacks and colorful potpourri. A fabulous old vanity with a pristine ballerina dancing atop golden flames. The bed would be the best part- a vast expanse of soft lavender blankets and cloudlike quilt of cream. Pillows turned up, sheets turned down- the kiss of dried fig lips strangely soft on my cheek, the scent of ocean mixed with ageless wisdom and baby powder. The click of a silently glowing lamp. Maybe graced with a fantastic story about princes and dragons in faraway lands. When the door closes I know that there is only light on the other side of it. I am filled with warmth, and bear the solid glow of unconditional love. This is my eternal dream.
The grit and the smoke stings my eyes like winking half tangerines in a midsummer black-out. Is everything in this moment, or just a lie? Hard to sit alone. That's why the ink stops (starts?) flowing. Honest moments mean processing which means immense pain (not sure whether I can withstand it's force...) Isn't it the truth that we're all afraid of ourselves? We're all afraid of what life can be, what it might become. Hopeful, but afraid.
Will reality ever show it's shining, burrowed head to those with bleeding eyes? Everything is red. We cannot see but for sleet and storm. Can we stand to dodge barbed bullets chasing us through a freshly burnt forest for much longer? Is not every second a precious waking breath, which might at any moment escape us?
Do you see so much the past that it obscures the future?
Tobacco caught in a spiderweb
Gold light streaming onto chest of hidden secrets,
Fingers so cold, blue lips graze unkempt skin.
Millions of tiny pictures, like dead leaves rotting in a winter slush.
Burping smoke- streaming tar- bleeding ash.
But the truth is, these moments have been given to me beautifully and freely.
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