Paulio (So?) 27.3.014

So what if I want you in my life
(but have no idea who you are)?
So what if I choose my words so carefully--
but have no idea what they mean
(as the Tennessee Honey metabolizes)--

elected selectively, as hairs plucked
from a maniacal trichster's scalp?

(So what.)

So what if I play mind-games with myself?
Will you play with me (will you hold me,
will you entertain me [these fantasies],
will you reciprocate my hands' healing measures)?

No.  No, you will not.

So why do I want this?

Because I have shown you new things;
I have brought something
to your table
(and you say your food [the act
of cooking]
is Love-- and I know it to be true) . . .

So what if I sit here pondering,
mired
in the Nothing
that is the displacement between You,
and Him
(and really, there are no Others),
and all of the rest who have come before;

so what if I spin around and

(round, glassy eyes)

around inside my head; so what
if the Tennessee Honey
(metabolized, metastasized
[what has metastasized in me, has it come down from {the other} Him--
my Elder--
whose flesh bears no relation {but that of marriage
and chosen family?}]
fully, marching onward)

might soon bring the room to spinning?

Is any of this less true?

Where
and/or
who
are We?

Is there really any meaning (I need it I need it I need it), or
are these the mind-games of which you speak?

If every exhalation and exaltation (upon your entering [into me])
sees the departure of countless bits of matter particulate
(molecule, atom, proton neutron electron and so on)
which have comprised both stars and God Incarnate,

then why must No Meaning be found in between
the spaces nullified by our mutual embrace?

What have you to say?

So?

What have you to say?

28.1.014 An open letter: the Point of Singularity to the Void

After ten months, there was a response; the Void shouted back-- in a muted voice, just barely audible: "Hi".

I still love you.  I never stopped, even though the letter I sent said I did.  When love shifts phases from "mutual" to "unrequited," an imbalance occurs; I became the parabolic curve infinitely approaching Zero.

There is a sort of base-level Love-- call it Respect, perhaps-- which should be extended to all living beings.  Whether or not the "human" or "sentient" sub-category of living beings deserves a special sort of respect or love is debatable, and it is a subject I have not yet examined fully.  Regardless: you-- the Void-- are human, and are therefore living, and are therefore deserving of a base-level Love and/or Respect.

There was a time when I loved you in a special, remarkable way.  I have been led to believe that there was a time when you, too, loved me in a special and remarkable way.  Whether it was a conscious decision or not, something in your being chose to put an end to that golden period of time.  Another part of your being chose to send this information across a great Void-- encrypted as ones and zeros (everything and nothing; wholeness and emptiness; singularity and a void of said)-- in a parabolic sine wave which lasted for four sentient, human minutes and twenty sentient, human seconds.

And when you gaze long into a Void, the Void also gazes into you.

Humility 24.1.014

The sound of my own voice used to make my face burn.
An outsider's perspective imposed

upon my own eyes
(the unforgiving camera lens,

revealing to me

the already-plain-to-see)

would make me feel sick;
I was my own greatest enemy;

my biggest critic.

I am still that same person.

Though I've grown, though
I've peeled away so dutifully

every internal-and-external
imposition restricting me,

I am still that same person--

and, God damnit, I always will be.

Fuck.

I hope to whatever Gods may be

that the prying camera eye
exists somewhere inside your own head;

that your actions

have been made plain

(that you have been flayed,
laid bare [for the World to see])

in some sick display meant solely
for those beheld gemstone irises of yours.

Meditations (on a walk along Loma Larga, Corrales, NM) 11.3.014

Plucked from the sacred soil-- loose underfoot-- whence they came, the stones must surely lose their luster.  Taken to lands far and away, their light goes out slowly-- ebbing daily-- until nothing but husks like bones remain.