woman two.
Was there screaming from the new friend? Open mouth of terror-silence. No weep. Contortion. Visceral to surface—volatile-tension. Dash, fall and vomit.
Whomever woke up with red-sauced brain-spaghettis slurping out earholes…pillowcase stickiness, quenched hunger for terror…whomever-whomever-aware?
Sheet wrapped corpse in clear body bag: uncovered by mortician.
Small child curls up in bed sheets: uncovered by parent.
Which is which?
Postpartum depression.
Postmortem joy.
Who is we? Who is me?
Who are me? Who are we?
All thoughts and actions aren’t my own; everything is mine alone
Softy rising northly, knew, lovely in its own, eternal; for what, in all and everything always, the warmth of steam-soothe, steam floating, relaxation.
When do the leaves return to bare trees of seasons too harsh?
Music of the water in season, out of season.
Sanity sanitation invitation, to real and or false senses and realities of and is relaxation.
Numb honeycomb, sweetly comatose.
The Smell Of The Human Body
(Loosely inspired by the painting “Personaje Nocturno”
by Adrian Bellon)
First Sight:
Night, vision-embodiment, marring sleep.
Blue floats over, up to, neon womb. Brown, sand foundations serve as birthing stirrups for widespread legs.
The fruit is ripe in light.
A man sits in the sky with a leg in the air, one with bent naked foot into dirt.
Moist translucence is a thick humidity in an extravagance; colors become colors here. Glass has no shine, only texture.
Day sees salt blood, but new is born.
Second Sight:
Space ravishes in full: all is quiet. Two tiny men kill each other under the orange light of a bottle. “There is much to see,” says one while the other kills him. The other little man’s life is taken by the light of the orange bottle.
“I only got half the eggs I ordered,” thought a man.
Third Sight:
The taste of night air on city lips. A couple walks quickly then stops, and soft winds cool sweat as they stand. From a dark area, their eyes find a new place.
Sirens bleed eardrums while pressure builds; there is no release, only exhaustion, fractured memory.
Along the backside of an old building he sees an old friend from long ago. He moves to embrace him and they sit and talk for a long time in the dark near the dumpsters of several restaurants. He is old now; they are both very old. They had a falling out many years back over five bucks and a woman who meant nothing to either of them. They both were relieved to be away from each other but soon became upset over what had happened. It is hard to find good friends most anywhere you go.
One had brought with him a bottle of liquor, so they drank hard while they talked. Later one grew to a massive size while the other melted into a shining puddle.
The details of their conversation were pretty boring, mostly what might be expected from two sad old men talking drunk in the dark by the trash.
One thing interesting that they said, though, was this:
“There were two large cans of beer, each different than the other; he opened them both, sat twitching, staring at the walls of different shit that he had put on them, each different from the other.
As hours passed, he knew of his necessary return to what constitutes the necessary reality for most people; he felt enslaved by it. He wanted to live inside of those two cans and wondered if the bubbles would make it harder to swim or easier.”
That was all that they said.
There were a lot of yellows that were unaccounted for; this was an inexcusable thing to have occurred. There were glass bottles and bananas and translucence and bare dancing bodies but little to no yellows.
Fourth Sight:
It was a sunny Sunday when the wind-sand blew in my eyes. With a move of a hand there was no notice of any bother. For weeks the weather had been euphoric; as much as possible of what I was aware of and was able to control, I spent in it. There was a lover that I met near the large tree downtown, and we were wholly satisfied then in sand and sun.
Time melted and we became unaware of everything other than our pure experience. Lasting for a long while, when it ended for reasons I can no longer remember, I had both the calm inside me of knowing of the existence of this and an intense rage at it being so far apart from attainment and possibility of repetition. I married another soon after and settled into age.
Fifth Sight:
Blood, musk, sex-fruit. Wet, dirt, mud-smear. Hair, teeth, finger-scratch/slice. One moves into one is another. Dance psychedelia. Move, move, move. Fast action in slow time. Life circle, dance circle—drum.
The objects are all around. They are one; they are not unique. One is inseparable; one is inseparable from another. Look to a place to see another. The palate is mixed and spread thinly and fully to translucence. Taste of wet tongue. Life breeds snow-fire: structure evaporates into mist carried into a view of light.
Sixth Sight:
Scum, stained asphalt, concrete coffin. Graffiti-jumbled steps of backyard back-alleys, paranoid incantation, asthmatic, sarin, fever-dream. Young bodies line the street in living negation procession. Ceremony proceeds funeral. Gun in mouth while gums bleed—ice, metallic. All who live lives in unwilling and unknowing sacrifice.
With this quality I live new possibilities.
Past dreams of a serene future cracked into moment to moment awareness of destruction and preservation.
A pathetic attempt of groping normalcy through the evidence of culture in restraints, sometimes transcending pain.
The way I lived was; and that is all: it is useless to try to change the impossible.
In trying to hold the only love known, came bitterness and hatred.
When the terminally sick first start to lose weight, there is often a joy, especially when the unknowing compliment their change, this new beginning, the next phase of life.
Seventh Sight:
Open vast land dimensions distant, feelings of heat, numb tingling sensation, dehydrated, dried leaves of bush in desert sun, small rocks all around stone and brittle earth sounding empty under heavy footsteps. The trail winds in the clear of all surroundings. A couple intertwines naked on the burning floor under cactus with pinned corpse crucified. Visions are seen in distant mirages of passion cool water thirsting. Beginning of infinite; journey ends in smiling bloodshed: flower opens oozing birth of life.
Sketches Of Nature
Earth essence turns to needles full of water. All with feathered electricity.
Off onto the moist spiral trail, light-green and brown. Long beards hang from branches. Ridged trunk wood feeds. Brown rugged dirt hills. Curving frailty.
Pubic hair relics of purity. Purple people explosions. Greenery violent molestation.
Cement moving hop-scotch in grassy ruins of womb.
Outline in distant mists outdoor. Lines miss the door and draw out.
Golden hands reach helpless from the earth.
Swinging while budding is snow on leaves. Powerful curving erection flowers. Red and orange rubbed on nudely. Long sensuality.
The giant planted animal finds its antlers fallen lushly swollen.
Many ripe green triangles turn to ripe spearheads. Many ripe danglings from trees.
Lines mark the trail of death; ripe blueberry vulvas mark the trial of happy death. Wine stains lucky clover.
Grey bark miniature forest; steady, scribbling lines wave sight out of vision, out of tiny leaping eyes of visions.
Every bit of beauty was used in daily lives.
Brush marks move diagonally in sway. The colors change with perception.
Young, watery twigs softly grind between teeth.
Pebbles lay the path, perfume clay is what it is.
Breathing
, haunting statues give us the health of the whole of happiness.
Jagged rocks cut the rainbow into uncountable scattered bright colored pieces; whenever we walk, we see them.
Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be truly hungry? Do you know? Do you really know? What is the drive to feed? What is the feeding? What is practicality in the eyes of a predator?
Sea comes to land and sets afire earth through dazzling electric tree glowing in orange, yellow, green neons.
Water lilies sleep floating upside-down with sex-crazed frogs in terror of avoidance while they float on slick plastic rafts and make noises into phones with winking eyes.
Thick pipes shoot from the ground into the sky, coming from and going to nowhere specifically. Here, elephant ears turn to green flapping leaves.
On the other side of these broken walls there is freedom.
Cotton balls lift to the sky as Gods.
Man makes underwear out of God.
Wings fly from the water.
Water flow is stopped by its children.
Ancient trickles tickle clean wet mineral scent; flaking rock falling.
Wood chips smoke the trees. Death accents life in morbid jubilee.
All particulars turn to universal abstraction: everything turns to everything else; all is quiet and still with flashing light tones and air as music.
Spice scented wet labia cups of lovely pinkish reds drink the dew and offer it to us as sacrifice and as sanctuary, but along the way the bugs have eaten through the outer part