Static Hum of the White Void 12.02.017

Here is the silence I expected,
Here
Is the olde inaction, the indecision, the
Proclivial avoidance;
The silence, the
Silence, the

Ones and zeros;
Wires, static,
Parabolic sine waves proclaiming
Nothing more than data corrupted.

17.12.016 αlpha, βeta

They grow only on northern sides
because too much sunlight will kill them.
Polaris is their false idol, though they’d never realize ----
They follow Her North, leaving behind
the truth of their equatorial Progenitor.
Towards absence, frost, and eternal night, they trek onwards:
heartless, and feeling--
longing for the prick of the pin amidst
the celestial void, the growing icicle violence,
numbness corporeal ----
a realization to be given over to the more distant Heavens:
αllaying + βelying the warmths of the God at their backs,
now South in every direction.

Every moment, I am at my own wedding.
To wed: verb; I am wedding,

I am wedding Everything,

there is no longer Me,
there is no longer capitalization;
everything is equal and with punctuation,
to express waiting.

and i am at my wedding,
i am at my wedding.

and i am at my wedding,
and i am at my wedding.

3:26-3:35 AM 02.02.016 (Into The Void)

Yup I got home at 3:05. My phone died and it *just* charged enough that I could turn it on and text. I lobbed the lightbulb into the intersection of California and Belmont and it didn't break, so I scooped it back up and brought it home with me because that seemed important. I found a beer bottle though and threw it into the intersection of Elston and Francisco, whereupon it shattered and skittered across the asphalt prettily. I heard a bird singing beautifully-- the only noise in the night aside from distant cars and my attempts at destruction-- between California-Belmont and Elston-Whipple. It was a beautiful night, I'm glad I came out. Let's see each other soon :) Sleep tight, fuck school.

26.12.016

Though through forest greens-- through fields,
and streams-- I'd like to roam:
today, I must compose a poem.

Halfway to death, I scared
the poor girl: sharp intake of air;
piercing scream; an about-face whirl

to face, wide-eyed, her devious assailant:
bright eyes filled with ornery glee,
and mouth split in a mischievous curl.

I offered her sweets, sincerest apologies
(kisses of Hershey's, I'mreallyreallysorry's)--
but no such contritious feats would suffice.

What would be nice,
said she,

(swagger in her step,
boots so high-- forever that twinkling smile in her eye

[but not so today-- no, not this time])

would be,
of course,
"a poem."

And as I wandered the high desert
(homeland of sun and humming air),
four weeks came and went.

And though my journey was pleasant
(revived from light, though my skin stayed fair),
mountains took my breath; my words were spent.

Though through evergreens-- through
mountainside streams-- I long to roam:
today, I must compose a poem.

Though I've lain me down upon the loam
in hopes to one day feel the embrace
of mycelium who call piney soil their home,

I know from the sap coursing in my veins
that the trees through which I wander alone
are where I will find my rightful place.

With desert winds to fill my lungs
and the burgeoning sun on my neck, my face--
I hear the cry of songs yet to be sung;

I feel the starkness of open space.

Though through mountain greens-- through
arroyos-once-streams, I did once roam--
today, I have composed a poem.

18.11.016 Old Nothing

Today, regretfully, I woke up.
I'd dreamt of stacking cat food cans,
of paste- and gravy-covered hands,
texting straight friends, asking
for a reparative fucking.

Today, I awoke to a hunger I did not desire to quell—
to more fear, to an empty bed,
to the old feeling of absence;
husband, warm at my back, where are you?
I have not missed you in so long.

Today, I rose to yowling cats, purring
as they ate their cereal, purring
in one another's presence—
attacking my feet, my hands,
chewing wires and pushing plants from stands.

Today, I wake to hours passed,
to the old braying of my heart,
to the brute punishment of Time and Space.
Old paralysis, old Nothing, I've found you again—
or perhaps you never left me at all.

Métis

[Half One]

We happened upon a mutual presence through our well-timed sufferings, fell into it like divers into bottomless pools, black and glassy with kept promises of absolution.

There were tears, and there was commiseration, and for hours and hours the sadness felt a little more human.

Desire coupled with suffering, suffering with desire, and he was there, curling into every part that mattered: nestling there, cradling, pulling me to him-- and he to me.

The hours were slow: breezes and their chimes promising to us Spring, rebirth.

Light spilled in through your windows.

And we sunk to the floor, molting from our clothes, and sweet
and sweet
and sweet

and O! how I needed you then;
how I love you now.

...

[Half Two]

I am not sure what "half" means in this case,
though you've told me the story of how your people got their name.
I think of the relation of halves to wholes,
and how halfness is often just a lie.

I think of the wholeness of every experience I've shared with you:
from the communication of love and needing
amongst errant notes of treebound chimes
and the chosen notes of an artist whose feisty trill I will never forget,

to cupping your face in my hands:
chilled by the black and glassy waters I so often mistake for the sea
(our waists and every thing beneath disappearing):
your pseudo-tonic-clonic response to the onslaught of heatstealing
at the most-tender union of eustachian and jaw.

I so loved you that night; I so ached.
You were a vision.

I wanted to cradle you like a child,
pure and precious and infinite:
to fold You into Me, to meld our worries,

fold ache into ache into the oblivion in which we stood: suffused with love and wonderment-- cold-infused bones, animal cravings.

I feel nothing but Boundlessness in you.
Your tears are kisses of purity, delicate
and absolving, filled with the suffering that is existence.
Your kisses on my neck are the pitter-patter of rain; I feel touched by something cleansing-- and pure--
from on high.

You are of this Earth. You know of Heaven,
and awaken in others
(in me, inside my Self)
that same knowledge interred.

You are always Here.
You move forward, you
will always be moving forward--

something Earthen, and something of Heaven.