it is that i feel somewhat lost and
i care not
sailing smooth
onward
pushing through
uncertainty
jump into the unknown
leave your dreams behind...
she does not own you
you are in a mist
she does not need you
captain
tails
and swagger
she is alone without you
let her be alone
she is your mother
you do not owe her blood
if when you are here
you turn to glue
concrete
and fowl smelling ways
or
you turn into yourself
and diverge like bud
roses
but then
who cares
you are everywhere
she does not own you
she cannot disown you
if love has the wings
(for yourself)
then why not take the risk to be the sun's friend
no where is sunny all the time
and sometimes the best places are sunny almost none of the time
if you are lonely
go walk in the rain
turn around turn your head
look down
and cry
the rain and you will make love to the ground
and beauty will follow you for the rest of your days
sorry bunny
Friday, May 16, 2014
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
deep time
this might be about that.
deep time
is underneath
when she takes her underwear off alone
with space
deep time
is underneath
when she takes her underwear off alone
with space
in between spaces, expanding space
between her and the nearest other
"deep time, how far or fast?"
wildly spin, is the iris of our eyeballs, a thousand eyelashes,
and the spider who spun the silk they're surely made of
of orchestrating cuneiform(s) of patterns
one by one placing then down
each pattern placed, eventually conjoined
makes cycles of pitterpatterning
all domination transient
what stays is passing
in this placement
one can star at their hands
and find a line... (the finer the line the finer the find)
now color deludes fades to gray / back again / lights come on
deep colored time patterning
distorted recorded reflections of recorded recordings
repetition
of that one time
when,
she laid down beside a dead fawn
she and jack found in the woods, away from the people
and opened her mouth against the dust, in agony, to perform the suffering
of its death-before realizing the deer was covered in maggots
spinning flesh slowly determined in small pieces
before dropping her shorts
and removing her underwear
before
burrowing into that dim tunnel
cavernous archaeology of
thrust
or touch
with tips of fingers, uncovering material history
light like fingers, the friction
telling distance orientation and spin
before
opening her eyes to each new
sun
and seeing real people pass by like an onslaught of never-ending waves of viruses
before, pointing to the place
"where it hurts mommy."
and almost falling down (but gracefully)
backwards in time (space) time
almost spending too long in the dirt
before
being ready
before
cloaking one's self
before
reaching for top shelf shit
climbing up / jumping down / grabbing corners kitchen cabinet skills
like a lynx
in deep time, deep rainbow'ed time
splits / fractures / splits off
that prismic jello
that
fractal hero/heroine
before, getting back up again
wiping the fine sand off her butt and looking below at the imprint of her silhouette
alone, with spaciousness of space compounded, between her and her
moment.
when she took off her underwear, for no reason but to bare it
not really alone, could see herself in her self(body / river /map / guide)
and all the playful mandalas
of her childhood
running outside to pee on the dirt
deep in deep time
between her and the nearest other
"deep time, how far or fast?"
wildly spin, is the iris of our eyeballs, a thousand eyelashes,
and the spider who spun the silk they're surely made of
of orchestrating cuneiform(s) of patterns
one by one placing then down
each pattern placed, eventually conjoined
makes cycles of pitterpatterning
all domination transient
what stays is passing
in this placement
one can star at their hands
and find a line... (the finer the line the finer the find)
now color deludes fades to gray / back again / lights come on
deep colored time patterning
distorted recorded reflections of recorded recordings
repetition
of that one time
when,
she laid down beside a dead fawn
she and jack found in the woods, away from the people
and opened her mouth against the dust, in agony, to perform the suffering
of its death-before realizing the deer was covered in maggots
spinning flesh slowly determined in small pieces
before dropping her shorts
and removing her underwear
before
burrowing into that dim tunnel
cavernous archaeology of
thrust
or touch
with tips of fingers, uncovering material history
light like fingers, the friction
telling distance orientation and spin
before
opening her eyes to each new
sun
and seeing real people pass by like an onslaught of never-ending waves of viruses
before, pointing to the place
"where it hurts mommy."
and almost falling down (but gracefully)
backwards in time (space) time
almost spending too long in the dirt
before
being ready
before
cloaking one's self
before
reaching for top shelf shit
climbing up / jumping down / grabbing corners kitchen cabinet skills
like a lynx
in deep time, deep rainbow'ed time
splits / fractures / splits off
that prismic jello
that
fractal hero/heroine
before, getting back up again
wiping the fine sand off her butt and looking below at the imprint of her silhouette
alone, with spaciousness of space compounded, between her and her
moment.
when she took off her underwear, for no reason but to bare it
not really alone, could see herself in her self(body / river /map / guide)
and all the playful mandalas
of her childhood
running outside to pee on the dirt
deep in deep time
This is No Creation Story.
This is about a point of OMitance. This is the conjunction of animals. This is the endless flux of ending but not quite really ending, and beginning but not quite really leaving the beginning and the non-cycles or vacillation.
The ones we witness in the dark when we are tired and wake up not to a new day, but the SAME day, in all it's pieces now. We wake up, we pick up the pieces, we put ourselves back together. We are eyes, legs, mouths, knobby knees, shins, bone, flesh, pointy fingers. We are hair, nails, eyelashes, whiskers, gnarly tongues. We are teeth so sharp and bloody. We are the tips of the newly formed buds in Spring and the dirt floor reaches its tiny tendrils of moss up our toes. We are ground, sky, lifting, shaking, dying on the ground, prostrate in the sun .. kinda children.
This is about a point of OMitance. This is the conjunction of animals. This is the endless flux of ending but not quite really ending, and beginning but not quite really leaving the beginning and the non-cycles or vacillation.
The ones we witness in the dark when we are tired and wake up not to a new day, but the SAME day, in all it's pieces now. We wake up, we pick up the pieces, we put ourselves back together. We are eyes, legs, mouths, knobby knees, shins, bone, flesh, pointy fingers. We are hair, nails, eyelashes, whiskers, gnarly tongues. We are teeth so sharp and bloody. We are the tips of the newly formed buds in Spring and the dirt floor reaches its tiny tendrils of moss up our toes. We are ground, sky, lifting, shaking, dying on the ground, prostrate in the sun .. kinda children.