In my dreams last night I was sitting and watching armies gather across the ravine. They were not many, maybe two hundred. We thought they would stay, though the bridge was hardly guarded. Then, I heard pipes play, wailing many voices calling and saw that they moved. I called the alarm and went to change into fighting clothes. Pink silk shirt and bare feet. Knife and sword. There were two other women, and we made up mother maiden crone. I called out to the Scottish leader who had just come across the bridge. I walked up to him and told him to stop. He laughed and asked for our names. I didn’t know one girls name, I think she was young. I forgot my own name, and only knew that I was the daughter of a king, a princess. The older woman (to my surprise) I knew to be the famous new age author Skyhawk battling bare breasted. He tried to take them, and they wanted to go to him, and I ripped the spell, took them back and we fought. I dashed in on the right side, stabbing, and even when I sometimes tried to just wound, I would fail and strike a mortal blow. In the shoulders, in the back, in the chest, like butter, like flesh, greased with blood. In my dream I fought an army, and won.
Well now. It’s falling quietly, like mist does, and blood. This is a secret room, but mine is not yellow, it is breathing colors out like tears, it is shiting them and sighing them. These colors of mine. Never before beheld by man, or woman, or spirit dog. I don’t think that you read my letters anymore. I am speaking my heart here, in this place hidden, like the piece of oyster shell under my tongue for dark moments. I have been looking for one bedroom’s. Tired of this stretching boring life. My friend does not look at me, and I do not look at her. Something is sick there. At first maybe it was my anger at her having friends in many forms that I did not, and then maybe it was her anger and sadness sitting till three pm not leaving the room, and now it is just sickness, and I don’t feel welcome, and I want to leave. I want to leave and live alone and risk being lonely for the rest of my life. Leave and live being the key words. I think in one weekend I could pack it all up, and leave behind all the things I don’t want or need. One bedroom for art and one for me. Romantic living. He was hungry and hung up quickly. It hurt too much to just pretend to leave, like we sometimes do. Funny how no one mentions if they read here, and why would you? This is like looking at my bare upper thigh; beautiful in some lights and terrifying in others. But no one sees this corner of the sea- no one but stars and lost fish- wandering till they meet and become blind rock clinging jewels. It’s cold in my bedroom. It’s cold like the head of a drum that plays nothing. There is no spirit here that I am invited to. I can’t smoke with you? I can’t sit in the dirt and I can’t stand to clean anymore? I am ill? I am dying? I am hurting and all you can say are sarcastic things? Do you think that anger will be better? Do you think you lack the power to wound me? I feel forced to hide here. I feel forced. I have enough nick knacks to fill a place now. I miss my sister. I want so much for someone with some context to talk to me. I don’t know these people I’ve been forced to I feel lonely and no one real calls, and my shallow seas I have been making, rivers flowing down my neck to collar bone damns to belly lake, I can’t have them anymore. It is time for drought, please. Or time for real rain- light? Just edging the air with the smell of grass? Do you remember what I looked like when I smiled real? Can I starve myself to death? Taking speed and sleeping for two months made you look good. Bless you for being smaller then me, for being the height of fashion, and no, there is nothing you can say to make me think I am acceptable here. There is only fear here, and my magic left me, and my goddess abandoned me, and my eyes have been clawed out by crows: I am typing by touch. Label me bread and blood. Label me hairy and self loathing and mordacious. Label me because I forgot my name. Did I have one, once, in some corner? It sat in that groove at the very back that if you push you cough. I am afraid of being surrounded by the false. I am afraid that I am false. I am afraid that people have turned their backs on me and that no one will speak to me. There is not a silk scarf to be found- only polyester and rayon blends. I wish I were trapped in India, and that I found warm moist winds quietly pulling thin cotton over my arms. Some how there I would forget what beauty means- thus obtaining it. There I would drink and eat like there were butterflies in my stomach, and lions in my heart. There I could sleep with visions. There I would have a teacher, and I could grow accustomed to knowing love is not real or necessary to the heart. Is there not enough love in our hearts for the line of horizon and the dip of a does back? How could a boy take up more room, or a child, or touch? It will fall gentle to death, the night air, and I’ll stop breathing there, like hope does sometimes. Like hope.
It’s the end times, the dark days, the conclusion of a reality that we can possibly feel comfortable in. It is a death of soul, and we are not allowed, based on our level of pitiful faith, to see beyond the veil into the light, if there is light. We are floundering, we are pressing against the bonds. Old ropes made of tight woven hemp, but they haven’t been made like that for a while. Now they are nylon and Teflon and when we stare at them the fire in our hate makes them melt, and the old ropes are strung with sweat, dripping eons into the lake beneath our swollen feet. The lake has become salt water where it once was pure from the earth. The lake has grown algae because of the tiny bits of twine flaking into it. The lake has been filled with our shit and piss for so long- and the ropes are breaking. What could this mean?
Cleaning is in order- and it is all done in the dark.
The minions of God, the seraphims and men in garb lay out the tools for cleaning. This wont hurt a bit- just hold still- don’t be afraid, we’ve seen the other side- and trust us, it’s not as bad as all that. Not too bad, not too bad. Just remember to hold your breath until the pain in your chest is worse then that in your heart and mind, just hold your breath till the screaming stops, and then it will all be quiet. They lay out the tools in the last rays of lights and it all- goes- quiet-
Do you have a poem for me? I want one that is a quiet rhyme, something old as our language that used to be spelled (if it was ever written) with “y” instead of “I”. Tap it, in code, on the inside of my palm, the one cupping your neck to protect it from stone and fire. Don’t worry about the meter of it, the smooth telling of it. I will say it until that’s here. Those old ones always have their own walk, and it will sing to me- you’ll see. When it gets shades darker, when it’s black on fire without light on black, and its lasted two eternities of love, I will whisper it in your hair, and your dead body will come back. I’ll hold on, but you let go now, I’ll find you with the old spells, the ones that made the world.
It would be a bad winter. They had no idea when the flashing electric things said it- a bad winter indeed. Too many had forgotten how to call the sun from his resting place, the one on the underside of nowhere and halfway south of yes. Science was not of sacrifice and love now, and once it had been such a promising religion. Once it had echoed and beat its breast and given men for the cause- now it was like sheep to the slaughter without the heart- and the sun got tired. The bonfires were lit the day after- after it had all been gone over, and the people were reverting back to “primitive ways.” Lit on beaches and rooftops and parking lots. In the streets between the looting and the weeping there was fire. Poor replicas of him. Like hand cut wood ponies stood up next to Zeus’ mount. On the day, on that peak where he had to decide, he was always a little curious to see what would happen next. So many of them had screamed into the night in the old days, feral and hot with pain and lust, that it was always a wonder what they were saying and how they would change. Now, they were quiet, on the day of deciding, this year, no curiosity was peaked, and so, he took a long deserved rest from the ungrateful people.
The candles burned down on time- right where dawn would take over. But the long false dawn turned out to just be city lights. Even those lights went out soon.
She knew it was coming and had left instructions for the few of them that were to be left. Endless night brings endless night terrors. Humans had perfected the art of burying the fears deep, deep, deep. Now, day after day they did not surface in their original form, but in the horrors of lack of love and cruel indifference. Vampires, werewolves, and devils were easier to fight. All the dead sisters of the world conspired to draw out the poison with a long night. The night fears would grow closer, would not be swallowed again. How could they when the light of day was never there to wash down the pain of it? Soon the night would be filled with proper fears, manifestations of man that could be put down with those primitive tools, and the chants. They left instructions for the few, just before they bound the sun in a silver rimmed box and dropped the key on the left side of Saturn.
She panted as she labored- heaving and pushing and screaming. The hospital was overly sterile, she had said. At the last minute she had begged for it to be home. She couldn’t bring him to the world with florescent lights glaring through his eyelids. Couldn’t- wouldn’t. She ripped the air with lung bellowing pain. She sliced apart fantasies of what she was, and twisted her fingers into the bed sheets to hold onto the room. She thrashed then and laid before her was the great joke, sweet truth, and unkind knowledge of creation. For a second her eyes turned wild with it and someone yelled, “PUSH!” and she did and it was done.
The first born who would never know sun.
I've been working on poetry. Possibly it is not the best read, but its the writing I have been feeling most often. This is a series of dreams over the last week, layed out in dream wandering with some room for reflection. hope you enjoy...
I: It rang
Fusion of tiny wings beating
green veined sight
“We will die into kmart” to translate into “We will die till we live next”
Translate to “we will die, and there is tomorrow”
(her hand was there, matted into mine,
and I watched her while being crushed by the dead)
“we will bleed into Sunday”
fuschia feathers left spattered on ground, twirled in fingers, calling “I know you here”
outside the gold plate room of old lust, dusted
constant shifting cover, denial of
crimson on the ground
“I am orphan song, and I am hunted” haunted and haunting
Remembering back to seeing, not seeing, given sight, held sight, hold that sight
Boats along the shore creaked, soak light, winter dry
Blue cracked paint fracturing walls
Into egg shell pale
Found broken on the ground
With specks of broken yoke
Watching flies settle there
Seeing each texture of the sidewalk burial ground
Cradling again that blue
Listening as orphan
Wondering at color
Remainder: a feeling of light, despite the deep edged shadow of it, the way we moved there, and traveled again and again to well tramped space must surely mean something thrice in as many nights.
II: It was no surprise to see friend turned to enemy
It was expected by all parties
Diamonds rooted discussion
He entered with a tribe of dark
wont you sleep with her hand faking warmth?
waking world walking on tacks imbedded in cloven heel
Beads flowing over her aching milk (gone to heaven with sour thoughts)
Played with by unfaced persons
Discontent snarling the laughter
Just a voice taken through the throat
she was wearing white
entered into heavy lidded tight sleeping vodka
entered into after prayer to wax mixed blood and afterbirth
entered into with calm discussion of where the body fe/e/ll
later there would be redemption
we could see that we would be passed over by death,
just lay and give in
another cause to wake
III: curled in him
jealousy in the front seat
into valley of shocking lines
A town that stalks
Birthed out of the mountains sheer now in sunrise
he is revealed
lamp posts leave darker bruises then normal
and places of shadow absence are somehow sharper then even high desert should allow
there is something waiting now
She slit herself almost to open
Inch deep past ribs to hip
Marks of before
Now my stomach and this time blood
But shallow, in drafted marking
Then quite in a voice of action
IV: forgotten in the caravan
Lost inside the mind of others
Shaped by wild twist hair art
No wedding dress and a thousand dressing room dances
Shit expelled during the birthing process
No one looked up from their scones as she came in shamed and thin
baby was not asked after
Still/born rebirth, age 15
“I will not be known by my parents”
V: mapping out the case of nights now, like revisiting a landscape known, can recall lain out by the sense, the motion/direction of the stars. I’ve walked thirty to a thousand miles west of here, and south too in a place that calls me like red rock and houses built of living stone revealing secrets.
Will you write me a love letter in Aramaic?
Will you hold a cross to my navel and whisper to god?
Those stones are falling to the memory of light, always color, the climb, journeys to mountains, just outside of now, getting the space. How long I’ve been walking in this other waking world. They join at the outer rim of their limbs like Siamese triplets dancing to the sitar. This landscape of my body, held outside. I feel unraveling, leaving the body in sideways postcard password movement.
Each time I meet you there it is innocent quiet longing.
Light plays there.
Where you in the house temple made of rock?
The monks of a place and you among them.
The monks were fetching something, and for a moment, it was just wind in the valley where open clouds looked through us.
It resonates like only deserts do.
And then they came home drunk, like some kind of demons, doing everything to make their dicks hang lower, despite the cold of it. I watched them sway and listened to them slur. They came home with stolen goods, and I was hot with rage. My sense of humor was lost after eating bad food, and watching romantic comedies, and painting. It was lost after Friday was lost, and we, Friday and I, wandered down some snowy street, clinging to what we each thought the other should be, and trying not to fall. If the police are called I hope that I am asleep. They are perched on the roof, like gargoyles without words to spew. My body is aching with all of this tightness, like the skin on my spine cant relax, cant go back to its birth state of origin calm. Meaning to gather up supplies and escape, and now the quiet doing of it seems impossible. They will taunt me, they will tease me, called me pussy when I said I would rather sleep. Bad word, I name you female, and they don’t think about it, like I do every time it comes out of my lips, they just spew it. Pussy. Bitch. Part of me wants one to fall off the roof, to take the fun out of their game. Its just a biter bitch thing, must be the kind of thing that a pussy would want. I’ll feel bad now if it happens. Don’t die, I said. I gave them instructions before I hid away. Before they climbed up and out under the sky. Maybe they are braver then I thought, to be naked to themselves in the sky like that. To watch themselves in all their stone glory. But they wont remember in the morning. They never do. I lost my taste for drunk where ever Friday dropped me, near a bus stop, when I felt forgotten, because my ride fell through, and I had two bags with one that kept digging plastic ridges into my neck. Stop digging into my spin like that. Stop hating me so much. Stop wanting to forget, and for god sake, stop obsessing. There may be no way out from here on in and when we find the exit there will be an issue creating the space to let you all go, so if you choose in and not out and want to forget about the whole thing and just check out then we can just separate peacefully here. He said, I think that I’m coughing up blood. He said, look at my tycoon profile, and I smiled, and then the other said, and look at me with the Rasputin eyes, and I wanted to cry again. When, before she left, we were passing the cig and I had wetness on my face, and I said, I hate this shit. Not now, not now. It only makes me feel more lonely. It only makes me feel more like there is nothing I have ever really touched. It makes me feel more like I haven’t talked to him in weeks or months about anything I really felt and it reminds me that I am dying every day a little bit and that my writing is not being read, and that my mind is not being challenged, and that I don’t have the will to challenge it myself, and that I am in some sate that means no to some of the most important parts of love, and that I am afraid. Fear. I wrote it in the snow, and in his drunken state, not knowing that it was my stick writing in the snow, he wrote yay above it, and I thought, well, yes. It is that, and it is not that, it is everything that holds me away from everything that I could know and be, and it is that thing that lets me see and feel that I am being held apart. One more inch to go and maybe I will be able to go baby sit, because they need to be sat on, and wouldn’t it be funny if I went out on the roof and I was the one that fell? Wouldn’t that be hilarious? It would be a karmic thing to occur. They howl like wolves, wolves stricken with panic of the banality of life in captivity and with out the real passion of knowing that they could be free if they only grew thumbs. Well, that’s it then, getting older, dying, never really feeling real. But you cant maintain that feeling anyway, so might as well just get into a sodden second place with the right drugs and spit on the rug, and smoke your cheap cigar inside, so that no place is clean, clear, empty, not even my space, that I do selfishly carve out of this world.
Writing Manifesto One:
Writing is a form of energy,
a magic, a life, a live growth, a death, a page rewritten over and over,
a stalk answer,
a new flesh,
a set of something that can be transformed because it had permanence,
a tangible reminder of mind before and after,
and a freedom.
We make symbols that have meanings that have been decided on by no form of government, no democracy.
The choices of meaning emerge like a dream: layers of velum years, thin sketched skins laying out an echo of “yes” and “no” and “maybe” while we sleep. The history of us can be found in the roots of a word of patches of time and no time and picked up created time.
We are communicating through magical markings, which paint within us the colors of forgotten interaction.
Writing is a way of attempting to translate the word of God, the message of reality, into something that we can hold and pass down without having to touch another human being with the false sounds and miscommunications created by the tongue.
Writing is a mistrusting of oral thrusting of meaning.
A profound fear of the body.
A: As we are gifted with this other form of energy transfer,
where I can touch you in a subtle tone of sound without having to ever meet you,
as I can brush my hip into your palm without ever smiling your way,
now I can transform your reality from a distance.
Spells are written down.
B: But there is a jumble of thought, and there is a babble Babylon within a mind and we use word tools to sort out something solid that can then be woven back in.
Bile re-swallowed, cud chewed over, because we are never done with the process of digesting reality.
I use this to generate a matrix of understanding of what I am seeing
that will never be encompassed by any set of syllables.
C: With these paint box writings I can sing finger ridges and combine them to make previously unknown meaning.
They are expressing a yearning to kiss something,
and they are manipulating the way I let you view me,
and they are entrenching us into seeing through the lens of a history that
we no longer wish to claim.
Every coin has two sides, this verbose blade has two edges that can cut.
D: To teach the meaning of this means showing an otherwise hidden freedom and fear, means revealing the non meaning, the lack of contact and the insane new intimacy (I will be rubbing your mind) for what it really is. To teach means to reach beneath the skin of reality and take an invasive sample, to test against the light of experience, as well as the dark of it. Writing is the physical act that joins the boxed in thought to the aching fingers, a disconnect, and a reconnection, to the way we feel what is and is not.
But, in honesty, ignore the sounds of this manifesto, and the vibrations left over, as they are, only, just, lonely, words.
America; on lost love and spacious reframing
so I cried
while watching a sliver of luminosity
unaware vividness had been imbedded
eaten away in shadowy zealot humor
couldn’t halt, change the direction
the current of hope,
of valor and invalid
it was all down hill,
and cupping shaking hands around that
quickly leaking liquid
getting into the earth
make a damn out of weeping
mud of loss and wonder, slight,
some binding matter
brought to the alchemic game
sacrifice of heart
to bring about a space to
a scream call animal feral
begging for my blood
and the fear that comes before the knife
will the baby America accept my gift
draining so many
stronger and more robust
ebony and curvy
for a glowing seraph
unsure of which sharp surface to use
which mouth will best feed
if standing down, I could not look
into my daughter’s eyes
to tell her legends of red princes and peasant warriors
if I could not sigh at my last gift
without repeating every myth made
without weaving it to her
when her hair will look brighter with bird feathers
and snail shimmers across her left cheek
noble because we cannot sleep now
there is no time for unraveling
we wait a breaths space and it is desert
lines, arrogant projectiles,
bite into us
and I cannot have her eaten
I cannot have her consumed by fire
she will be my last, only, resting place