FRAGMENT FEAST
๐๐ฎ๐ต๐น ๐๐ธ๐พ๐ป๐ผ๐ฎ๐ต๐ฏ ๐ฝ๐ธ ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ฒ๐ผ ๐ฏ๐ป๐ช๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ช๐ผ๐ฝ
Help yourself to this fragment feast:
Written while on the clock via Microsoft Outlook notes function:
I-beam
Archaeologies and architectures of language are emotional in that I feel the blood and bone of them, the actual material of the letter to letter code that speaks and fizzles with its speaking, and that is good.
The truth of language is that it begs to be spoken for yet speaks everything itself and can never be answered nor explained.
Let me tell you the secret of my centuries on earth which have been lived through other souls and bodies.
I-beam out of spirit to force your nature to lick itself like the messed hair of a calf.
Mid 19th century chemistry deemed saturation "impregnation until no more can be received."
How many times will you impregnate me and when will I close myself to the reception of raw fluid semen in the style of the life-giving mother...... Can I become the host of dream animals in this lifetime? Animals that live according to a transverse logic imbued with the non-code of dreams? Can I lick the fish fresh from water and go home to feed my children with scales stuck in my teeth?
We do not have a choice most days what we are "soak(ed) thoroughly or imbue(d) (with)." How many cameras and computers have catalogued my face in their scaly, digitized mirrors? The answer is unquantifiable.
You read the world and it reads you in return, placing your collected symbols in a scattershot of hierarchies. Go to work for five, ten days, a week. You are in space, yes, physical space, yes, bumping against hard air. But you are also a dot on someoneโs screen, moving up the purple staircase towards the staff room, momentarily evading capture only to come under surveillance by some other means.
Written sometime last year and forgotten about in Pages document. All separate pieces, untitled, separated by dividers:
There is no I between us. Only the you principle which designates a place for I amongst Gods and an animalistic accuracy in the scent of the other. I must write without looking back, without looking for a sign to right the course. Our conversations concern gravity and the feeling of being in a pressurized cavity deep beneath the surface of the sea. But does the sea have a surface, you ask. You, the absolute human, have a penchant for knowing the answer to impossible questions. What if we guess and find ourselves correct, but there is no authority to validate our speculation. What if we walk off the edge of the sidewalk and there is no continuation, just space, and we know we must be somewhere, we canโt possibly have left the world, but all around us things disintegrate to the blankness of what we imagine a womb to be like, though a womb would be hot and uncomfortable, wet with the slime of life. We are not hot or uncomfortable, we are not lost. The surviving questions bleed a hundred wicked beams of light.
rift between the egoic telescope and the page. whether there is a mechanism for focus, for the non-sterilized attention of holy men to enter my bloodstream and elapse the years spent wringing water from unaffordable things. there were all these characters in my vicinity: the night stalker with his toy piano, the mouse with two lives. I could continue, but the air feels so nice. whatโs wrong with a little silence, the invitation of rain and dusky night. loneliness brings the three-beat engine call to the luster of other peopleโs lives, the absolute desire to feel from inside the skin of someone else, the kiss of life. there is no sorrow greater than the feeling of one as an individual, utterly separate from all other beings, painfully alone in birth and death. the insipid slickness of these lies.
loose grin on parchment paper, it was all about the balcony, knock kneed girls in their school outfits smoking behind the dumpsters, I admit I watched, not creepy, I thought, because I am a girl like you, I notice the way your clothing hangs over your shoulders and charts the landscape we share, or maybe I am a creep, like the plants and vineries, the wine from the grape and the crushed snow, colored with syrup, delicious to stand in the middle of the night with a slow trickle of water from a split pipe, no animals but the bats in high building reflections, and the medicinal pour of spirits next door, that special quantity, burnt lips kissing metal and misremembering the car accident, the lost signpost with staples and stamps.
if you had a hand it would grip me, but you are the invisible integer with no way out of the night. if you had a nose it would smell me, but you do not exist like a housecoat or a windmill. you are a metal rollercoaster with rusty hinges.ย
the ceiling looks the same as always, the bumpy texture of corporate recalls and early deaths from building too much too quickly, you know, the way grandfathers die. I was telling you about the boat the way my mom told me about the boat. I donโt know what it looked like, how big it was, how many bodies. I donโt know who was thrown from the sides of the boat and why some were left alive, only to be later killed or traumatized, which could have been the way my grandfather died, not from asbestos, but from too much water down too little a windpipe. I donโt know what he looked like at 11, but Iโve been told his hair was deceptively light. doesnโt that hold a mirror to the whole operation? but it didnโt make the difference, and I still donโt understand it.ย
on the other side, what relative privilege brings and what a menace it can be to the spirit of a family, and the dual menace of poverty. they can tell me both things, two souls who carved the rib and made a flesh of me, and Iโll always end up elsewhere, palming the atavistic blankness that drove the ancients towards sight.ย
It was a big bowl, porcelain without having to think about it. It was the sort of object that cuts through the noise of the day, in between the coughs of the frog, impossible to crack. The year unspools like a wet ball of yarn, leaving behind residual strands that pool in the doorway. Iโm supposed to enter rooms quietly and leave before anyone notices. In the reception of my presence I sense the memory of apocalyptic dreams and the shame of not doing enough. If itโs unnecessary to go back, if itโs impossible to go back, what will happen to the scarf I left on the table in the smoky backrooms where we slept? Emotional taxation does not warrant receipts. In the synovial fluid that lines the spinal axis, a contraction, too weak for anyone to notice. Stories in the parapets, contradictions of sound and light. the green apple hangs creepily with no spine like a broken note- book go over there doggy climb the fence of your neighbors I am afraid to speak about how the street felt before you stepped there or about getting on the bus when I didnโt know how to click my bicycle into place it is a medicinal urge to come up with the linings of my pockets undone No firm linkages between decisions. If the job comes, the days will be worked. The animals will remain caged in the miniature zoo display by the factory farm. Consume everything, the voice commands. Covet the ground that scoops you into the wide pull of gravity.
From yesterday:
Lost phrase!
Wanting to be absolutely gone,
the first morning I caught you
washing yourself wildly
as if disappearing blood stains
There is no longer money
You were washing your body violently
as if having fled a murder scene
The light grew from the kitchen to the skin
and far inside its body
demeaning itself with every twitch
I will open the movie theater
just for you &
those sour eyelids
fantasizing about the identity
fitting perfectly inside the flesh
Every day I watch a different squirrel approach the same ledge
Spiritually I am glued together wrong
like a rabbit in the soup
Watch as kaleidoscope lines normalize
death tolls and tinnitus scratching
the cochlear surface
A glued together wasp is still a wasp
on the other side of the window
I will make a movie inside my poem
Then my poem will not only be a movie, it will be an actual place
In other lives, every work was my last
This one will turn its back before ending