have no idea what she’s talking about and keep drinking. And then later I get in a couple fights—one with some random stranger, one with my special someone.
We tire of beauty and retire to our plastic houses, melting in the sun: “only noodles taste good with other noodles,” I was once told—but even then knew it was a lie; where do we go when we have shrunk and have been living in toy houses with streets to nowhere that are messily filled with many toy cars that don’t run? I guess we just end up rolling along somehow. But all this bullshit talk isn’t good enough. It’s bullshit anyway. I think noodles taste good with everything other than too many other noodles.
Once, in a hospital, I listened to a man die just a little ways away from me who had been brought in by ambulance because of his house being caught on fire when he was sleeping and the inhalation of too much smoke. The people at the hospital tried to revive him for a very long time, but it wasn’t long before his body was rolled past mine, wrapped in a sheet and zipped in a clear bag. The workers who rolled him, after they passed me, bumped the bed-cart in the doorway they were trying to get passed and laughed and chitchatted.
But music still plays into the sounds of water and our thoughts distill and intoxicate; wind breathing into our mouth after long hard kisses; hot moisture of lover’s mouth near ear; whistling breeze of evening; mud covers skin; the wind picks up the dust of dry earth as smoke of a fire, the movement burning everything it touches; land slides into oblivious inclusion. The cat walks with paws on either side of fence where the scarecrow is entangled in barbed wire. We hold hands and sink into the deepest oceans. We see electric fish knit wool hats for each other and think that we always wanted to learn how to knit and sew but never did. Earth quakes and is blended into a delicious shake
Tastes Of Red And Air
Through wood-framed window to soft, green yard, highlighted in yellow streaks moving without body into soft moment.
Walking through the garden of trees not much taller than own body, with the branches reaching in every twisted direction while preparing to bloom months from now, on top of a small hill that looks above a pond that is itself reaching but softly with no moving direction other than the fullness of birds.
There had been a great effort made to be closer to the ideas of what was normal for people, and there become a troubling and exhaustion though the failure at doing this.
We see a blue a few shades darker than the color of the clearest sky. Then, there is the grey violence of oceans.
There is a feeling I get at times, though usually right as I am in bed about to sleep—part of this feeling comes though images: I see the city where I live apart from its buildings and people, in browns and greens and moist from waters; then I see its histories, its joys and bloodsheds; these I see while my physical body opens in the becoming of this so as the feeling is whole, singular and sound—colored beyond tones of my own ability of memory.
While walking the city with this feeling always present, the city’s histories are now my experience; I recognize everyone; my body’s hair turns to sharp grass blades that taste the air; I can remember the city’s naked body, seeing it all at once; I see everything and everyone through time; I can see the places of joy glowing and the unhealed marks of violence still unprotected from infection: all this I see on each step of each street.
Two years turn to the noise of static as I travel though the city without my body—for this is the only way I can interact with everyone.
This entitlement to be comfortable: why would I want to be if it is not the truth of everyone? —Feeling good when good is not the true feeling?
Conversations about our futures in cut-up parts. For lunch there is a block of red clay to form vegetables with. One of these creations resembles a safe place to crawl inside of, so this becomes a home, ineligible for edibility.
I reside in my resolution, a revolving residence that allows in resolve, residence of salvation’s resilience
I have the ability to sacrifice.
A-Merry-Cause
In the land of hearts where the cards show kings and queens, what is the deal with what the difference is with what is dealt to one or another in what is kindly called play? And what is the gain of the game?
Needles fattened in center to be round-belly-bulbs point light; forward brightly yellow sticking skin: hungering for what has been called savage when trapped inside a cube scrubbed sterile. You are the prey of nature. You learn how to pray to your disbelief. You are in touch with your body. You touch your body. Your body is touched by others. Become touch. Become body. You turn into you; then, turn yourself around into circles in around and outside of yourself.
We expose ourselves to the exposure; we put ourselves into painful positions to report on our discoveries; we become our becoming and disappear in the despair of the attempt; the lines that have been drawn that define us and where we are and what we can be have sharp edges; our continents are crisscrossed by deep cutlery; our merit is lost in the cause of which we don't know the reason because of—but we think we know it is a merry cause.
Thirty green tongues wrap around a tall sharp spear. Light reflections from a window. While the haves hold out their empty hands, we give our baby away to the multi-toned diamond shape; this is where the triangles tell you their names; this is where went momentous motivation. Energy is enormous pastures of sun-spotting pregnancy. Law licks laughing labia of cruelty without beauty. Murder and purr. Winding the wound around unfamiliar way of losing ability of finding ground.
Who are the survivors, they ask—what is the success of the succession?
...[Story]...
We, struggling to be.
Can I forgive myself? Can I forgive others? Can I learn to love before I die? I feel honesty in this; this shows the importance of honesty. Where there are tries at understanding, there is not always compassion; though, sometimes there is and it changes everything: there is a trust that is new.
We remove ourselves yet again in unknown detachment trying to be free; and they say: “they find themselves yet again in unknown detachment trying to be free.”
There is this thing called something by some. But what should we call it?
We find that time has no rewind and that we are moving forward faster. Here memory remembers us and breathes our future in whispering. From these whistling sounds, we find music to guide us.
There is a telling of the seeing of our portraits, showing us with words that the world is a wet thing—giving us true stories of how walls of war dividing let down themselves and then move on, eventually pushing us up by letting down, showing us that we can have feelings of closeness not closed off.
Here we end up saying sayings to say what can’t be said.
There is a fear of others, self; there is a traumatic body of severe scarring. Hurt body: unable to connect with whatever hope is out there—not given the privilege of opportunity. Trying to hold onto comfort by not allowing oneself or others near—by de-animating oneself—where expression never threatens the sum of the hurt bodies of some. Hiding, so not noticed; hiding the hurt that is. We feel forced into saying “let’s make in our empty confidence of arrogance a regular person and forget about our inability to know humane opportunity” when we want to learn how to say “let us humbly remember possibility’s possibility.”
Chance of chances beyond what could have more meaning than this. Chance in time of a life, of life, of life’s time.
Embarrassed by conscious self styling situations, working for perfections, releasing towards others.
Nakedness has become increasingly important for them. The past of one was such that the difference was extreme and significant in a much larger way than what might be expected. The difference here was one of someone who was closed off and alone but is now one who is together, open, sharing.
We remove our clothes.
Song Of A Story
It has a certain smell, the oatmeal of my quenched childhood isolation grown, salutation of sky summer
air of summer salt cinnamon.
I become a spider, climbing along chalk room, meeting a vicious end by vacuum cleaner.
So goodbye. We have loved for a long time now—lost in the joy of our offering.
I stop along the water and calmly find the river’s soothing rage. I relax my own muscled tissue, become a silent stream.
In hearing a warbling of what I take to be bird noises, I become a cat.
There is a child blowing gentle bubbles where planets form in quick moments dissolving to returning returning again again, fragile floating whales separated from their oceans.
I am left lost in front of what at first seems a building without walls that end. There is movement.
I am found with a breathing, flushed green beast.
For this is our rediscovery—flowing back into our sea and from it.
Maple sweetness of future cookies cooked.
For I was raised with raisins.
The Medicine Fields
Her thighs smelled of saffron, lightly bleeding; ginger fabrics paint across floor.
Over and over and further and faster we rolled through the fine red rose stone roads past the sensual clouds of pre-noon delight in anticipation of all