intimate desires destroy? Do my most basic wants scar? Could I have sacrificed, could I have given something, have given up something, more, or at all—given someone else a chance by giving myself less? Could I have done something that I knew was truly good? What difference could any of this make?
Do I doubt that if I give up anything that it would end up helping anyone else in any meaningful way? Do I doubt anything could change anything? Do I doubt myself and my ability to do anything? And, with these doubts—if true—do I not allow myself to change? Do I not allow the possibility of any help to anyone?
Where does my action begin? What is my action that begins? And when does my action become interaction?
The Most Beautiful Part Of The Rose Is Its Thorns
In the quiet, simply looking for intimacy.
Fantasy frictions of force let loose violets velocity, excellent acceleration.
Rectangle smudging teal green paint framed by wall navy blue—portraiting pallets perspective—silver shines translucent circulation: fresh oranges drip juice onto shaking skin; playfulness pilots navigation; sweet syrup slides slowly, seen succulently. Lips touch neck.
Our bodies, while undressing, found to be neon—we embrace!
Between this one and the picture with longer hair, you look like two very different but both very beautiful people. But we don't believe in pictures—but this doesn't change this from being truth. Either way, you are amazing, and I wish you the utmost happiness. We will someday know who we are if we look past our pictures.
Finding gorgeous stone walls and a stream just below the ground beneath us, we stay under the earth and paint with dyes made from plants we pull and clays we gather and ash from our fires until our bodies become part of our creation—we become part of expression of the earth on these stone walls—we transcend all these things and ourselves.
Dispense the verse from golden coins that are worth nothing is triangular lyric is us neon here too—forceps pull milk from dispensing machine—milk feeds our infantile needs—imagine a cup is a luscious island, nurturing. Because we know the beautiful penis is the flying fish of the air—the key to the chord is what is in accord with the key—corn records on an accordion.
It depends on what is the end and how mean it is. Winds blow colors onto drab sterile housing. People breathe life into what is lifeless forced upon them from the incapacities of the misguided—a misguiding of the flow of experience where there is an ignoring of elegant simple nuance, so ignoring nuance and feeling little to nothing, in a way that is sad—and where there should be no pretensions—these incapacities, in murdering attempts—but the people continue on. The small palm tree stands straight and tall with its sharp happiness. Many other trees also grow and offer us their friendly fruit to feed and save us.
There is no pill for health and happiness; we find this only in the mirror that reflects the stars—we find this only in our undying love—even after death—as we continue brightly—we are naked and neon and continue to embrace—we caress and kiss—we are we and one as this—we erupt into explosions of color as in the cosmos—we are the cosmos making love—we make love—we are alive and lucky to have the privilege to live life while living—our incapacities with our perception of fate move into stars and burn away as we flow as volcanic rivers of earth's birth and possibility—we are neon still—embrace can be seen from space, and is a movement of it.
Outside Of The Outsiders
In the theater, there was a body sitting close beside us as to not be left alone—needing permission to laugh, the cooling comfortable warmth of joy.
I need to tell you a story, and I need to tell you the truth. I have eight wombs inside of me where babies grow; I am constantly ovulating from one place or another; always either having babies or getting ready to.
Also, many creatures, one or two at a time—hundreds through the years—ooze out of my pores at various moments of the day. There was once a green one with four small heads, a thin body, one winding spring leg and three tails. It said to me, “One of your wombs would make a gorgeous place to die.” I was disturbed and didn’t know how to take this. Then it said sadly, “These responses are not of real hunger or authentic urges; they are decoys of myself simply for destruction and because of destruction: the exhaustion is now whole and has devoured me.” To this too I was disturbed, and I was also very puzzled. I turned away and only think about what happened once every sometimes.
Waiting to realize the truth of intuition’s engagement. Wandering toward, wondering if? Experiencing experience beyond its experiences.
Lulled calm—singing quietly as if there is no more need to seek any contentment: a seeming absolute state of satiation satisfied and moved beyond. Presence with strengthening ungrounding.
Shaking emotion of form of formless us, expression forgetting the expressing through the expression. Fire hydrant turns to liquid flowing, melted from sun: human-like form: frozen roses off the side of the walkway.
The couple is not fighting over money—or even the food of need; their relationship intimately expresses too much honest hardship: starving from eating too much starvation.
There is a large pile of hands asking for help, needing fingers. There is an abuse in substance.
Meditation On The Freedom Of Identity
Of course I still thought about sex with everyone that I saw that interested me—some that didn’t—thoughts that seemed to travel by then be forgotten. But then, for a few, and then more, thoughts began moving towards seeing ourselves together for periods that sometimes extended into what was exclusive and inseparable until the end of what I saw as time. As these experiences accumulated within me, I began realizing the nature of their intensity and depth and the significance of this; the realization that I had to accept was that part of me lived each of these lives with each of these people and that I was being violently but without my knowledge changed by each experience. The memories—which previously had seemed like a single thought—or perhaps just little more for whatever reason—started to return in details the complexity of which shocked me: it was as though I stopped living as myself and became an open instrument of infinite memory—because after realizing this, I could no longer think back through my own history and know it as it—for these distinctions are beyond what I am capable.
This, The Story
Learn what it is to be, then try to become more than what was—or what was known possible. What is it with life where as the years went through, or what thought was, that it became harder to find pleasure without pain? To became everyone, but who else to become?
Across the bed, old arms give new life: one sees reflections; grass disappears in the wind; glass disappears in the wind. There is a tree near with pink-lighted bulbs. Its dull toned limbs and body turn to chrome and flood the green of grass below, the green of glass around. Above, a chamber made of stone where birds play.
There is an arena of silk where wars occur. The dying smell fertilizing breathe until sour. Eyes turn to purple hanging leaves and droop in hovered light wind below the face. Picking up the tree, beating yourself until you turn into the tree, now escaped in the distance.
Skin melts in strong heat and leaves only muscle covered in thin lining; there are small dark veins you see beneath. If it heals, it will scar. Your blood blooms and flowers. There are large cracks in the trunk where things will live—but this doesn’t hurt. The body a fetished percussion.
Frayed, not yet unraveled, winding together in increasing strain, pressure building, mounting—a fountain release. Hung dangling within all celebration while never able to live in participation. A separation from necessity that appears false through its essential sensuality. Happiness finds beauty walking in shadows. Love loves sweet strong surrender, sweet serenity. How desire, how to, now, know now, now knowing, knowing what was, will—this, and still nothing. Look to compare. It is almost over.
Mistaken for a baby but left over from birth; still beautiful.
Floating-dancing insep
arable with identity, flying manic in trilling leaps.
Living off of what, become it; lose everything for it.
Because what did?
Because what could?
The ultimate dreamer lives in dreams.
Wonder if; to question hope.
They are like rain in winds flowing forever opulent. The tiny red arches rest off balconies of glowing gold silk and knotted rope.
Our Songs’
Animals release us. Given the circumstances, making the best decision out of love, for they have no more capacity to take care of us.
Learning how to live, making modest improvements, eating the soil with what is sowed; sewing our fingers to our toes—imagining ourselves as great, perhaps a marvelous sculpture.
Malachite inside foamed cumulous cloud. Formation constant—watering glass, stone floating, greens greening.
Here, in lonesomeness, I wish that you were beside me, able to know if I am not able to awake. I don’t want to share my sickness, but I am most afraid of lonesomeness in death. I need the feedback of our touching chests to know that I am here—and here as more than me. Your genuine compassion and devoted love is the measure of my well-being and my failings.
Relationships