genuinely interested in other people and then things will be alright and sometimes a lot better than just alright.” I asked: “How do you really know who you really are?” I got no response, but I took it as an answer that made me feel that anywhere I go I will be welcome.
There is no need to end this discourse—but we are distracted by thoughts of intercourse. We try to invaginate all our words to give birth to a new language, one that is purely happy. We keep our word and live on. And of course last through the night, into the morning.
Bored we saddle up the dog and let the children ride through the park on its back. We try to feed it carrots—which the dog won’t eat—and call it “horsy.” We sit back in the grass and let the children play in the jubilee we devised. We took it for granted that our dog was fairly submissive.
Strangely enough, our dog gets up on its hind legs, tells us to go fuck ourselves and then flies off into the air over the trees.
What a terrible fetish for eyes I’ve acquired! The phantom fascination of a lifetime.... Outdoors I get excited for those gleaming orbs of dew—that look from you to me and me to you—whew.... I love eyes.
The Price Of A Priceless Beard
Many varying birds’ songs sang of the cold reflective water inside the grapefruit of pink-petal lips. Twirling florescent pattern. Hummingbirds feed on disease yet are a secret—allowing untrained quiet—wildly fanning away from themselves what is known to us as health. You can know the secret; it falls from the climbing rocks.
Anxiety is red where it is written— sounds become sauce; flushed, panic—attacks; grapefruit trickles juice: feel it. Pollen is powdered, put into pillbox inside purse. The goal is planting seeds in fields of vulvas.
A coherent shattered glass. Empty clothes hangers. Laundry hampers, full of self respect, the ability to love. Fish are taken into therapeutic custody without legal counseling. They say: “It is suffocating.” They ask for a glass of water.
Did you know that string-cheese is into bondage in violet nights? Pants are best when made of paint exclusively; paint is best when made out of nothing. What happens when lonely? Pants are made out of pain. But it is cheerful to hear the silliness of the dog that smokes grass and the cows that get mad that the dog is burning their food—and how the dog says: “It wasn’t much.”
Sex is the only self-expression for some, it is said; bloodied arties become a kind of art—under covers, brushing off. Forsaken for the sake of what—screw it.
In a grocery store, in a smut-smeared street, in a forgotten part of a city, it is the most beautiful thing to hear people talking. If you hop in the shopping cart and meditate on the macaroni and cheese, you can make the cart fly wherever you want it to. Not only that, but you and it will also be invisible too—so that no one else will know. This is a helpful practice in the development of maturity. Carrots work too—as well as walnuts.
A dragonfly swims into the dirty earth far below the surface, speaking to previously undiscovered worms as they transform themselves into liquid energy. The dragonfly drinks them after saying thank you, wiping the silver colored residue on its mouth against walls of the inner earth. There are nude figures of a fugue. And the words are heard: “Sweat drips down the ecstatic body; the organ plays the orgasm.” The dragonfly has no idea what this means.
Sharing cup; solemn, still eye: we drink our juice: sacred running moist—scared—across dry rock; ancient, underground, desert river—place where please is placed where none is any longer this—embracing.
She was always smiling and she was very active. She must be happy was the thought. But she wasn’t. I feel like she might have reached out to me—but I’m not sure. I feel like maybe I could have changed things—but I’m not sure. I have had to ask myself: how often am I of the capacity closest to what is the best possible?—How often could I have been ready with such aware capacity? I don’t blame myself. And I also know that all of the struggle and self destruction I have gone through and still go through, all of the times of having very little aware capacity in my life, has made me now, and still continues to make me, more aware and more ready to be capable. But still, I, as I grow stronger, I am not strong; and even if I grew mighty I would always be weak; but I believe in strength and growth—and I am growing and growing stronger—as well as growing that much more fragile and helpless: but also somehow stronger from weakness.
An old lamp has engravings on its metal body that reminds one of history. I anoint myself everyday with an oil that has been used for thousands of years; it connects me to life and to knowing that I too will die. It connects me with wonderful, terrified, content happiness.
A Beginning Of Storytelling
Inside the outside is the story that portrays what is not in portraits. Moving inside ourselves, we find ourselves inside out. Our story moves through and beyond simple sights of seeing—beyond the in and out of ourselves. Our past has paid our tuition against our intuitions. Let us now find ourselves in tune.
A mossy tree stump holds inside its hollowed center a bowl of mystery liquid from emptiness overflowing; we sit in a silent circle drinking.
Accepting the quiet violent life that we have discovered with our happiness, as our forward days of joy: our city whispers what is gorgeous and terrifying; holding close the ability to breathe.
In periods of weakness, revisiting the suicide of youth, allowing what is not allowed, struggling against smothering by a nature that isn’t natural.
Give attention to the causation of clarity. Vanity in everything is the mirror of illusion. Fir trees in the far off view sectioned into seven cut pieces standing together in severed cooperation. Clearly more is happening.
We Blend Into The Ancient Sea Where You Will Find Me
The man pierced his throat and shot sound across the hills where it gathered with the spirits it went through; finally music-box fingers of great length arranged themselves melodiously.
“Silent song of sleep is a vision waking you in slumber and following at all times,” was heard in the woods among the trees. It became apparent acceptance of dissatisfaction to lack of dissatisfaction begins to appear manifest based something, irrelevant but useful, revolving in the cosmos where many spheres line altogether.
Mis-education was never an opportunity of impossibility; they began having visions but denied them collectively, categorically: unified achievement of sickness. This is the sight of course where hands line the flow of blood moving through the hallucination of the form of poetry, and currents affect towards, convulse, new perspective, cause, all large steps to from-familiarity to from-functions of functionality, or the other way around.
I couldn’t believe what I saw when I saw it—because, in seeing it, it was obscene—never really being real before that. But at least I was able to walk away from the scenery of it.
An older middle-aged person was at a hospital getting a test for the disease that killed the person that this person had been with for a very long while and who in sharing their lives was part of the way of living that depended on one and other. Fear and loneliness and raw love were very noticeable, as was the wanting of a held hand and of embracing and soft kisses. People came in and smiled and talked. It was a very long and horrible wait to get the thing done. The experience was of being ripped of every bit of soul and love and hope and happiness in an anxious battle of the shame of naked flesh struggling. People came by and left again and again. The test was okay.
Whooping howls of percussion flow into distortion; paint drips bass on huge drum connecting miles of a single string taut across sky in vibration. And then a man in the street looks at you like he knows what dog-shit tastes like.
I go the restaurant alone again and hear from the table close to mine “If insects where the size of dinosaurs, they’d be like dinosaurs.” “Yes,” I think, “that’s right.” I’m always glad one of my favorite things to do is to listen to other people’s conversations. I put salt on my pepper, eat, then leave
to go to the bathroom. I eat dessert with tea at another table.
There was a person who used to think that everyone was nice and that things were safe, that safety was that person’s. And then over the course of several years from all the terrible things that this person had to deal with and the awful things that the person had seen people do and that people had done to this person, this person’s personality began to change from someone loving and affectionate and sensitive to someone bitter, partly detached and highly defensive. The person became depressed and stopped talking to people other than the ones the person had to from necessity. This went on for thirty years. But, after thirty years, the person met someone who told the person something that the person could never repeat, which allowed the person to feel and be part of things again in a way that went well, given everything, The thing that the person was told wasn’t a secret and it wasn’t a trick or an idea.
“Because what is the practical way of eating a egg sandwich?” an old woman says at the bar in the afternoon. “I like to eat the bread first,” she says. Then she says “the beeping signifies a kind of alarm device for waking up,” but I