sorry bunny

sorry bunny

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

a different prayer to myself

the same ideas the different ideas

the same ideas stretch the string, until it gets thin, then it breaks. It always breaks at some point, no matter what elasticity it holds. That's how things go.

the different ideas get new strings, tie old strings to one another to new strings. The different ideas follow a pattern, weave together to make a cord.

you cannot doubt yourself.
the same ideas, the different ideas, you stretch the string, you cut the cord. you tie the strings together. again. the cycle is re-born.

what happens when you deny your own power? the power you have to know what's right for yourself. the power to be an arrow, to point in a single direction, to move, not hover.
a hovering power holds others.

may you be lifted by the wind of your own cord.
may you un-plug the one on your hovercraft merely holding you because you are so light.
may you move into the darkness fearless to light the path. to untie the strings. to believe a shadow is not the entity out to hurt you.
who even gets to walk that dark path alone at night.
who even gets to be led by their own miniature black panther.
who even gets to sing and dance with power.
who even gets to fly like a machine built to fly, with even the schematics under the hood.

you fly now.
you hit yourself in the head.
you birth now.
you birth your own very wings.
you choose your own very path.
you let yourself take the one you walk alone, in the dark, in the brightest of lights. who bears the weight of light and dark so gracefully.
who whispers to the shadows, and speaks to them with honor, because it is all so obviously alive.

who twists their fingers in the air to catch the sun.

you do.
you do not.
deny your will.
you scream your will.
you give patience and patiency to your will.
you give agent and agency to your breath. to your fingers.

you do not stick your fingers to muffle your screams, because you are afraid of bothering someone.
you fuck it.
you fuck yourself.
you fuck.
thee eye in thou, you eye see thou is thee.

spell rivers with numbers.
spell patience with nimbs.
elbows these sorts of things.
nodal expectorant.
hop-scotch. one two three four five ten toes.

one long pointed nail up to the sky, down across the sea of water, that you are blessed to not have to cross with the imagery of falling in and suffocating behind you.

you blast your shame into your hair.
then . you. cut. your hair.
and praise your lips suck on them sweet as they are the most divine taste that takes no hands to lick.

you excise your dependency on external utters.
you reach with your family, who bear your cross like extra supportive limbs.
you believe you are a ball, whose center is nowhere, and circumference is infinite.

dear one.
dear one two three four five six seven ten fingers.
dear five hands swathed in latex gem-ery.
dear effervescent nimble feet, that float on air like ice.
that dance and always have danced.

to tell a lie.
to tell a lie. that you must hide your head in the sand because you are too god damned bright pink.

then taste your lips once more, as many times as you are able to, to under-take the wind's current.

to read the signs how else when you have a map that fits into the space which surrounds you.

the map you breathe. the map you see when lights go dim.
the map you inhale through your godly nostrils.
so godly because god-breath smells everywhere.

you use these legs that hobble and you make the hobble, wild, like candy fire.
like secret rainbow bridges.
like closing your eyes and believing in what you see.

you see a future.
you watch yourself lift your feet up from swampy mud.
you smell the air passing beneath you.

though you listen to wolves, though you hear words from fathers.
somehow you smell it off in the distance glowing.

free. will.
free. dom.
hands that bend to allow your growth.
that allow you to believe you are a special plant.
one who is conscious of its self and its place. and that's nothing to be ashamed of because that place isn't some stale white grey picket fence in south Africa overlooking tall building after tall building like your friends in new York.
you love them all.
and it's okay.
because with these lips the words your big eyes. you figure it out all the calculations with glee.
the syn-energy

it is okay to separate your autonomy.
with a light string onemuch like a kite's.

it catches the wind.
it does not own that power.
it rides it with love and ecstasy
inside the feet of angels.

dear heart.

"i heard thunder once." oh yeah, there was thunder!

what you seek for, you don't find
{she by the bayside water, in pin-striped coral shorts, wears the weather by her waist, as a sash that accidentally dipped into the toilet water, as she sat down, now she she just stands there wading.}

what they called eveil was a scrawny boy in cut-off jean shorts, not too short, covered in freckles, with a reddish beard hardly growing in at 22 years old.
the kind of face with one eye closed revealed feminine, with the other, masculine.
wonder if this half-vision sat in him deeply on the daily, now in the aftermath of his death. on this day, over 3 years ago, now.

(please don't red my blog please don't read my blog, please don't read my blog.)

no it wasn't just him that taught me how to recognize that look, some of you only see in the movies, of when you're doin' something but you're not saying nuthin. you're feeling some things. but you're not there. no. you're somewhere else. you're in the space that collides with the heart you left somewhere else, and that place ain't a nice place either. in fact, both places twined, spare your mind the extra javelin thrust. (you know where too, or do I have to explain what centered is)

it's a certain look, one could say, "out of it"
it's what you do when you don't know what to do, when you don't even try to know.

I will find that mother fucker in my dreams. and I will take him to my bone-teeth-jaw.
I will find that mother fucker. and I will reveal his sins, but not so much that I like that ice-cream so slanted sugary sweet off the ground and reach dirt.
no i'll stop right before ice lifts above ground.
I won't lick his sin.
or her sin.
yes, i'll be open minded.

and when you see that look, that face, that far-off glare, and the holding still of eye-balls, and holding still of body-cage, you know what that face is.

that's the the the face of yer child self trying to get out but trapped in by imbobilizing horror.