skeleton

radioactive love, this mountain of moving music // the miles from my eyes to yours ;; the stretched distance which becomes thin upon listening / the curvature of sound which never makes it from my lips to yours / the desperation of angled skin cells ; hunting for one another ; like a desolate skeleton of love once-discarded ; always buried ; never burned ; ashen in cruelty ; and firmly, fearlessly;; still alive

mostly in the stomach

Terrible black magic this thing called Love ;; terrible white-hot heat this thing called heart — fire in the lungs, earthquake in the mind, terrible fascination , this rapture for romance — terrible trick of the light, these wide-eyed trusting eyes I have ,, terrible tricks of the light and dark ; terrible illusions the delusions of grandeur and points on the map hunting towards anything other than regret ; hopeless eyes, hopeless eyes, thundercrack goodbyes and all the promises to never keep


at first the pain was just too sharp to even write,, the edge began to peel off slowly — but the singe still feels hot to the touch and my insides are still a garbled bag of misplaced organs. heartbreak happens mostly in the stomach.

upstate ny

Upstate;; and the air turns crisp and crinkled at the edges; the hills turn green on their backs – roll over to the blue side – tumble through the cascading hillsides ;; we race the road to where the yellow line meets the side of the endless fog racing down the mountainside // Vermont air mapled and sunning itself on the backside of what is already fall ;; laughter echoes in the alleyway/  love shines on the dashboard / the twist of romance pulls moments out of the sky // fistfuls of hands pulling air out of the sky ; pulling air out of the rustic barn – steel rusting on the side  // the towns that sprinkle themselves out like so much confetti on the twisting roadway / the quaintest sites you’ll ever see ; and the mist gathering around the endless endless boughs of tree trunks and pine needles fresh pressing in to the fistfuls of air // Woodstock splattered like a paint can ; humbled like a reverie;;  a little utopian world sitting on the precipice of a mountaintop ; the brightly-coloured remnants of the Peace we all parceled out for one another – the peace we traded in for shiny things and plastic things and garbled rings and fumbled rhymes of another time for the aesthetic of retro or vintage that we want cling to for the peace we need ;; for the piece of the peace between our fingers – we find it again ; always  ;always in the echo of the fistful of air today , swirling , who is cascading the hills through this fog? lifts , drifting , drifting apprentice , painting its own melodies across the hillsides :: across the hillsides, the fog lifts me and I let it

acquiescence

I can’t believe how the sacred finds me. How the sacred colored hues of the earth and the sky peel towards me like an entire history written and rewritten without words. I can’t believe the stretch of ocean beneath my feet. The rattle claw lobster head of the cloud jetty that is seizing towards me on the horizon — the endless sacred unfolding that twirls around in a circle with the rotation of the earth, not forwards on some blind, human line. It goes around on an axis, the wheel of this life, you silly thing. Not a linear line. We need more strange shapes to our stories, words, conscious expressions. We need more of that place beyond the words. We need more of the indescribable color of the history of the world sitting on the horizon each night at sunset. Those answers. Those answerless answers which hug the mystery tight and see the words written right in front of our faces. We need more recognition that we created our language – arbitrary, pulling sounds out of the wind and the way our mouth shaped against the air that bounced off the rocks around us. We need more acquiescence to the rhythm of bottomless song.

the heart that tears at the seams;; peels and purges itself — the heart that batters the rain, weathers the veins of the earth, peers through every open ventricle – vehicular everything;; finely tuned manner of mannerless measurements towards the manic love of living — with fresh air and fresh dirt beneath me

but you, everlastingly in front of me — the pain of the sidewalk everlastingly spreading in all directions

Of course, she says,
of course,
No other way could this possibly have ended
No other way could my heart feel the bitter taste of regret so violently

Other than you dropping the phone at the end of the line,, an endless plastic line of webbing drawing all of the fools to the table

You didn’t do anything wrong, you say; I say

I capsized first you, drawing the end of the life raft towards you like a blanket — I always knew I say;; your words tip like the finality of a star feeding itself with its own fire — the metaphors are strong here, the words are weak; the magnetic force is quantum;; neverending and pink

Of course, my heart would butterchurn and evaporate at the sound of your footsteps walking away- how could I never not always know that? Of course, my mind would splinter cell and cut all the corners ;; how could that not be laced into my DNA?

And this trauma too – will it too be laced into my DNA? Passed down the endless line? When do the chromosomes bend back in armor and fold over in rebellion- new patterns and arrangements the strongest fight there is;; when does it wash out?

a chaos of addition

adjust to the adjustment of justice never sitting just with you // with the world strung out like a lullaby in reverse ;; with the fire of indecision sitting like a bullfrog in your stomach – croaking out of key and at all the wrong moments / acknowledge the restless build-up inside your intestines, how the sky plays with the lid of the brain – tipping off the top, ripping off the rot — pulling you towards that longing of satisfaction – of the life that makes sense, of the life that equates out in all directions.

things don’t necessarily equate anymore — add up, ring out, roll up into the same tiny sleeping bag case in came in. the numbers don’t equal anything at all. i’m not lost or losing, just on the underside of a chaos of addition. how to get from a to b to c is nowhere in the alphabet anymore, nor do i even know what letter i am racing towards. but i keep racing. and i keep walking. and i keep dancing. i keep dancing towards pools of light and the love that pills in and out of them. i keep dancing towards the alphabet and the hope of making a word that can be read. i try to remind myself what it is i am trying to build. i try to understand what it is I am trying to build, for that matter. i flood towards the light and hope my moth wings turn into butterfly’s wings. or hope that i am contented enough to be a moth.

towards wholeness

“Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.”
and your rage like a fire in my throat; my twittering bird’s wings fluttering in the shade of your black temple. i stand, the firmament / you rattle the cage // the meanness of intention slicing through the atmosphere / daggers displacing gravity and the molecules in motion around me

i lean in to the friction of the light, the courage of boldness in my bones that reaches towards the higher self, towards the deeper love, towards the love we all must have for one another. i find that love never fails, in any human, body or blanket of cells / i reach towards friendship, towards the lust of reconnecting atoms flying away from one another in space / i reach towards breath, i reach towards myself / i find myself staring back at the end of my hand, myself, myself. you’re okay, bundle of atoms. i pray towards wholeness, towards people that lift other people up, towards finding the best in one another, in each other’s words, in each other’s intentions, i pray towards wholeness.

lift each other up

 

“They sang don’t waste your hate
Rather gather and create
Be of service, be a sensible person
Use your words and don’t be nervous
You can do this, you’ve got purpose
Find your medicine and use it”

alight

and here the ice rattles towards me like a promise. here the tree sparkles its ancient eyes like flecks of gold and silver hulking away from the branch. and here i see you again. and here i see you again. and here the minutes that live inside of my eyes pass like endless webs – like a melody in reverse, back again, back again, the words akimbo, like soft soldiers looking for a war. and here i break towards a new day, towards an endless horizon; here your eyes are like a patchwork of ash and curled nevers; stuck inside the sideways partitions between seats in a row; here you lie inside the little theatre of my heart, forever playing scenes we’ll never write

but the delivery of these half-imagined lines still kills me

DYFS in the dining room. whoever thought my life would get here? whoever thought i would be inside of these kinds of days? whoever thought my life would unfold like this – a bag of marbles and a rolling set of ramps and bridges — i submerge myself in the bathtub, all the way under the water, i know not how this day arrived on my doorstep // i peel back my curtains, i know not what i am supposed to do, but place one foot in front of another forever and ever, thanking each day for each splay of beautiful moments, thanking the light inside Jamie’s eyes for still glowing, thanking my feet for knowing how to walk, feeling my skin getting thicker every year, every day, every crisis / there is always more life coming for you, and there is always more strength within you you haven’t met yet /

i pray to keep you safe, little one, i pray you will not be damaged, you will know wholeness, you will not be afraid, you will not cower, you will not flinch upon approach, i pray you will stay alight through the dark night and all the flames ahead

all atmosphere

always the ever-flow of a cup of tiny lights bursting in the atmosphere, hazels and pinks and blues and something like music, is it all a concoction – a confection, a sensory hummingbird humming away at my heart ;; am i a curling page of some unfolding place i am supposed to always be or am i always the ever-flow of an overflow of a cup too small to hold it all in / too small to hold it all in — i runneth over, i, herculean bit of verbal eye language and saturn-ed arm twirl – i turn towards the sun and i let it collect me like light, reverberate me like sound, tilt me forwards towards the tilt of the earth — i try to tilt with it, align myself with the axis, but the thing keeps turning, and the thing keeps turning, and i am too small to hold it all in — and i am the ever-flow of a tiny cup of lights reflecting sound, not holding on to the ground, all atmosphere, all september rain, all cobble-stoned heart and fire-brimmed body – always formed but never finite; always the ever-flow

the season coming slowly towards

9/8:

I do it to make my heart full ; to make the empty spaces full of light / i do it because i can’t fight the love i have for it – because i feel like a whole person when I’m lost in the rapture of the stage / of movement / of colored lights and measured notes / to feel an organ breathing – a dozen people breathing in time, sculpting over a ball of air ; listening to the sound of the universe, responding with something to say, creating in the air – in the space between air and word and intention and retention and tension of musculature and heart ;; i do it because i ache to do it


the days turned in to battered rainfall, your life kept hiding in pattered wings, fluttering about, we’re all talking to butterflies now, my dear ryan.

your heart peels around mine like a curtain, we make promises to the way humidity feels on our skin, i curl backwards through the trees, the hunger for the sun and season holds fast on the leaves;; we take the reprieve of heat, we bottle it, we keep it tucked in our front pocket, we keep all the other pockets free for leaves and acorn caps and droppings of the season coming slowly towards us.

i call towards creation, i wait in the kitchen for it to hurricane over to me – i inspire myself with the movement of my heart towards words laced in love, i follow myself towards something somewhere that can teach me how to know remember how to let go, to find the answer to the questions of the current unfolding ;; of curious and curiouser – of the moments that don’t seem to make sense at all, at the frustration that boils like a furnace — i try to find the silver lining, to remember to flip the world on its head and shake up the snow globe, let it rain plastic trapped bits of white – i try to remember to flip myself, stop thinking of myself, look at the upside down roots of the tree, find an answer that i can live with ;; i wonder whether i’m creating it out of thin air, or if its sitting there in plain sight and my eyes are too weak and narrow to see it yet, curling into the bark – a few hieroglyphs of untranslated answers — i wonder how it all works – me and the sea and the trees looking back / i wonder how i work; my messy brain that keeps misfiring or re-hiring the old tired managers to come send the old foggy neurons down the wrong paths (the paths of least resistance, those comfy, soggy brain paths) ;; i amaze myself at how easily i forget all the ‘wise’ things i think i know at my clearest moments ;; i amaze myself at how easily emotion rips through the new brain paths i try to forge – a little icepick in my hand and a wall of solid brick in front of me // i keep trying, i will keep trying, i keep trying to stay more and more aware, conscious – light that brain up without fear; a glowing lantern leading the way, healing the fray, resounding towards the new day