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.
Friday, November 18, 2016
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
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.
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.
[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.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Fantasías Breves 28.04.009
La arquitectura
que a tí allí exista
no fue desarrollada por la alma humana.
Se siente perpetualmente
como extraterrestre;
la vida diaria—a él—no pertenece.
Desiertos de la mente ciertamente
(casi siempre)
se causan a él de perderse;
desaparece cada noche—
te acerca, te acerca;
es ti.
Cosas que he escrito
me griten en los sueños—
y me levanto temprano;
estoy solo, soy frío.
El resto de la vida seguirá tal.
Ya no encuentro el mismo sentido
de conocer a otro. Ha desaparecido.
Y el resto de la vida seguirá tal.
(Tantos días me han pasado.)
que a tí allí exista
no fue desarrollada por la alma humana.
Se siente perpetualmente
como extraterrestre;
la vida diaria—a él—no pertenece.
Desiertos de la mente ciertamente
(casi siempre)
se causan a él de perderse;
desaparece cada noche—
te acerca, te acerca;
es ti.
Cosas que he escrito
me griten en los sueños—
y me levanto temprano;
estoy solo, soy frío.
El resto de la vida seguirá tal.
Ya no encuentro el mismo sentido
de conocer a otro. Ha desaparecido.
Y el resto de la vida seguirá tal.
(Tantos días me han pasado.)
Hours 29.06.010
we are nothing in these silent hours.
as we were once; so are we not now.
the seeds of a dying flower disperse, to foster new life;
shards of a life will not grow, retaining a lesser and ever-fading glow
of things that may once have been.
schisms of the mind have no will of their own,
and will not grow—
but flatten.
and too soon, the world has been leached of its light.
nuclear waste into fertile ground;
our only hope is fluke-mutation—
and if we can manage to further the race,
what of our own splintered selves?
how faint the glow.
how unified in blindness and
anonymity of the mind.
Death to the Art—
and Death where Life alone should blossom.
the words are greying the pages are greying the pens are greying,
my fingers—
they are Grey:
and i am withered.
and i remember not of Myself.
as we were once; so are we not now.
the seeds of a dying flower disperse, to foster new life;
shards of a life will not grow, retaining a lesser and ever-fading glow
of things that may once have been.
schisms of the mind have no will of their own,
and will not grow—
but flatten.
and too soon, the world has been leached of its light.
nuclear waste into fertile ground;
our only hope is fluke-mutation—
and if we can manage to further the race,
what of our own splintered selves?
how faint the glow.
how unified in blindness and
anonymity of the mind.
Death to the Art—
and Death where Life alone should blossom.
the words are greying the pages are greying the pens are greying,
my fingers—
they are Grey:
and i am withered.
and i remember not of Myself.
The Quintessence of Dust 04.02.007
Y: The only thing I can think of saying is that you may find that [love] again.
X: I don't know if I want to
X: it's really frightening.
It is the nature of Love that it recurs, and that it frightens you to the point of neuroticism-- because it is the most terrible thing in this world. Most terrible because we have no control over it, and it tosses us about like rag dolls. Knowing that you will always be prey to the clutches of Love can be comforting, because it will always be there, either in happiness or sadness. Everything can be spoken in terms of love; even a lack of love is still a definition in terms of "love."
You will find it again-- not only that, but love is something you encounter every day. Some days, you can feel the way the earth and the seasons respect and admire you; other days, you love yourself; and still others, you find remnants and traces of love in others. Some people have a stronger dose than other individuals, and those are the people we tend make the hub of our lives, if only for a time [and what is time but everything; even if you love someone all your life, your life will end some day; your life is subject to time, and-- in the weaker of two possible cases-- so is your love].
But you may yet find a person with whom you share such a collection of Love that it spills over into other people, and the two of you will spark the connection between other protean lovers and new-found couples, whom otherwise would have crossed paths without a backwards glance. This is how love can exceed the bounds of life and time; Love is above us-- and more appropriately, beneath us; underlying [it is hypokeimenon-- look it up on Wikipedia]. Love is like magic-- it does not belong to us, but the most skilled mages can wield it fiercely and with deadly, horrific, and awesome intent. You can pass your connections to others; let them be the conduit for the Boundless, for Quiddity, for that dream-sea from whence comes the origins of the word "soul" [seula-- again: look up "soul" on Wikipedia].
Whether or not you find just one person with whom to share your stores of love, it will find you again. And you'll hate it for all the memories in your system, but you will come to love it for the system itself; for what it has done to you, for the person you have become-- in spite of, with, and without [love]. It transforms you.
Your self-love, and the manner in which you can collect and trade love with others-- regardless of their potency or yours-- will be an inspiration, and an impetus in the workings of our world. Love is the oil which drives the clockwork that deists say God abandoned so long ago.
I love you-- do the best you can to spread it around, or hoard it to let loose on the loved one of your choice. Use it well, when you find it. Remember that I love you.
X: I don't know if I want to
X: it's really frightening.
It is the nature of Love that it recurs, and that it frightens you to the point of neuroticism-- because it is the most terrible thing in this world. Most terrible because we have no control over it, and it tosses us about like rag dolls. Knowing that you will always be prey to the clutches of Love can be comforting, because it will always be there, either in happiness or sadness. Everything can be spoken in terms of love; even a lack of love is still a definition in terms of "love."
You will find it again-- not only that, but love is something you encounter every day. Some days, you can feel the way the earth and the seasons respect and admire you; other days, you love yourself; and still others, you find remnants and traces of love in others. Some people have a stronger dose than other individuals, and those are the people we tend make the hub of our lives, if only for a time [and what is time but everything; even if you love someone all your life, your life will end some day; your life is subject to time, and-- in the weaker of two possible cases-- so is your love].
But you may yet find a person with whom you share such a collection of Love that it spills over into other people, and the two of you will spark the connection between other protean lovers and new-found couples, whom otherwise would have crossed paths without a backwards glance. This is how love can exceed the bounds of life and time; Love is above us-- and more appropriately, beneath us; underlying [it is hypokeimenon-- look it up on Wikipedia]. Love is like magic-- it does not belong to us, but the most skilled mages can wield it fiercely and with deadly, horrific, and awesome intent. You can pass your connections to others; let them be the conduit for the Boundless, for Quiddity, for that dream-sea from whence comes the origins of the word "soul" [seula-- again: look up "soul" on Wikipedia].
Whether or not you find just one person with whom to share your stores of love, it will find you again. And you'll hate it for all the memories in your system, but you will come to love it for the system itself; for what it has done to you, for the person you have become-- in spite of, with, and without [love]. It transforms you.
Your self-love, and the manner in which you can collect and trade love with others-- regardless of their potency or yours-- will be an inspiration, and an impetus in the workings of our world. Love is the oil which drives the clockwork that deists say God abandoned so long ago.
I love you-- do the best you can to spread it around, or hoard it to let loose on the loved one of your choice. Use it well, when you find it. Remember that I love you.
Saturday, September 3, 2016
31.08.016
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.
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.
Saturday, July 30, 2016
30.07.016 Anterograde Amnesia
A handsome man with a brown/black-haired child-- freckled, long eyelashes-- climbs the stairs to the upper level of the train. The child has a long curve of a scar running from just above and to the left of the whorl of his cowlick, and down to his left ear. The child speaks slowly, a little dumbly, asking "what's yesterdaaaaay, what's yesterdaaaaay," and exclaiming as we pass junkyards, "another train." The man is responding patiently, but I have to wonder what sadness or resignation this man might have in his life-- perhaps his son's personality was stolen from him, either in some accident or defect, requiring his head to be opened, the electric-gelled-fat pieces within rearranged, reordered, removed...
More than once, he has asked his father, "where are we going?" And his father usually answers, but sometimes the child has to ask twice, before the father deigns to respond to the question he has answered more times than I think anyone would ever care to count. Again: "what's yesterdaaay." The question is ignored. The father wants to move on, but his son is stuck in a loop where he cannot make memories, he doesn't remember that they're going three more stops, two, one to Downer's Grove to get french fries.
They disembark. One last time: "where are we going?" And they walk away from the train-- the man holding, gently, patiently, his son's hand in his right, and a sweat-out Starbucks cup filled with warm remnants of some tea mixture in his left. On his fourth finger there is the silver sheen of a ring.
The son stares blankly at his father's under armour-clad torso-- eye level-- and worries his lip, biting it, with his teeth and forefinger. Nervous habit. Dad is on his phone, sending a quick text to their rendezvous, or perhaps checking apps to find a place with french fries. The train pulls away.
More than once, he has asked his father, "where are we going?" And his father usually answers, but sometimes the child has to ask twice, before the father deigns to respond to the question he has answered more times than I think anyone would ever care to count. Again: "what's yesterdaaay." The question is ignored. The father wants to move on, but his son is stuck in a loop where he cannot make memories, he doesn't remember that they're going three more stops, two, one to Downer's Grove to get french fries.
They disembark. One last time: "where are we going?" And they walk away from the train-- the man holding, gently, patiently, his son's hand in his right, and a sweat-out Starbucks cup filled with warm remnants of some tea mixture in his left. On his fourth finger there is the silver sheen of a ring.
The son stares blankly at his father's under armour-clad torso-- eye level-- and worries his lip, biting it, with his teeth and forefinger. Nervous habit. Dad is on his phone, sending a quick text to their rendezvous, or perhaps checking apps to find a place with french fries. The train pulls away.
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