I write in response to the words of others.
My madness is not self conspired, it breeds
With the connective nature of this world.
Your feet speak to me in two-step forward
Patterns; and their counter. I dance with you
In the silent recess of a girl’s voice projecting
Her eyes upon the world.
“Even the articulate or brutal sounds of the globe must be all so many languages and ciphers that somewhere have their corresponding keys—have their own grammar and syntax; and thus the least things in the universe must be secret mirrors to the greatest.” — St. Paul
sleeping arm, fluid— the arm like tenderness
drawn out of soul cupping dovechild -sleeping-
-evoking this traveling tendernest.
Awe found, nestled wove-in length of armwing’s
fibrous, clean, soft, featherskin. Un-writ. In.
A humming birdsong inside… locked beauty
-You- an un-writ key. Tiny dove
am not I? Good enough to capture tenderly
The essence of what it is to Love— for
that lies in the experience of heaving
chest as gravity pulls his beating heart
in to mine— head nestled between the hollow
in my neck and the curve of my breasts and
we dream of taking to sky… and then we do.
“I have recently considered colloquialism
as cannibal— This method of communion;
bringing some of uscloser while it is
simultaneously tearing u s a ll a
part.”
-alixa meli.
With in Language—
are many hidden languages
defined by the speaking
interests and values.
We no longer say how it is,
relying in stead, upon
self-defined perceptions
of Truth.
We stand behind names—
turning our backsides to reason.
We idolize what is past—
in ways denying us our present gifts.
We idolize what has passed—
in ways which demolish progress and demonize our neighbors.
We are Un r a vel i ng
any chromatic weave coming-itself-together.
Un r a vel i ng the process tethering us to any bright future—
All Coming Un d o
ne.
Justice
Vengeance
Destruction
All bleeding in to one… re(a)d… see
With in Language—
are many hidden languages rewriting the same book—
building walls: book upon piled book—
one on top of an other; each book with its interchangeable
persona’s: “I will trade you my Devil for your Desire”…
Demons exchange with Obsessions. (What you might reference as a Poem:
I could call an Exorcism.) All of these different names for the same th(mean)ing.
We are so progressively fucked; collectively dividing
our self from ourselves— paradoxymoronically:
waging wars based upon a misuse of the word—
becoming ourselves: (The) Weapons of (Mass) Destruction.
And in war there are no winners,
only glorified losses carrying—
the celebrated losers crowned by—
pompous death and its pageantry of ritualized destruction… This is US in prayer.
We have been given this day— training
to take our words
for granted. We are no longer aware
of what it is that we are apt to say and are forgiven our trespasses.
This is the day that the dictionary has become My bible.
This constant battle has transplanted my roots
in this institution— so many times, to re(ally)
learn the lesson:
I must look beyond the words—
To find the mean in g.
I must fuck with order—
To def(end)ine my self.
And perhaps, by paying close enough attention:
I will make it out— in
tact.
While I was busy—
looking for meaning… I managed to find my Voice.
You that is my mother
And my father—
My house, home and garden—
You— that is— my raging seas
blows in bubbles— life with planets as bodies/core—
You— whom houses me
Realize me
On levels far beyond these I am able to comprehend of
You— whom is— my house, home and garden—
My raging seas— of indifference—
blow in winds— of change— diasporic salt’s from waters reign—
into rivers— of
You whom I navigate my dinghy through— and on— and in
Asking for Arks— in metaphor ms…
I who choose to see— You— in my mirror
And my sea—
I whom Am— My House, and Home—
Tend in Garden— blowing bubbles into my sons warm and moving bath
I
whom houses Me— realizing self and all that is mine
responsibility— but not Mine
Own— I whom am— a flea—
Your house— home and guarded Inn; a soft place
Land— in me.
I am not indifferent.
Pray through winds— of change— shatter my shifting perceptions— of you—
that is
I
whom build— imaginary ships— the likes of which
no storm can touch— carry on— deliver
Us from You— and to
You in rapture of the worship of each other.
You— I love— in raged in-differing metaphors—
Whom I love in metaphor—
Whom I love In
You— Who am I
Love— In
Loving— You who
Am I— in Love
With
In You whom I Am
You are
Not un-like me—
Not Army
Who are you ?
You are Me.
Swallow.
Fresh sweet cup of poe
Ive heard its
Addict ive heard
Its addict ive
Heard its addict
Ive heard its
Addictive
Like a fresh cup of joe
There was fire on the horizon at dusk today…
PowderSugared Purple mountains
OilPainted Steely grey clouds
Heavy
Soaked
with silver rain… soon to be
Snow
And an inch or so of flame,
in-be-sandwiched-tween
burning the horizon out
in shades of crymson-golden-crystal-gleam.
Looking— for the line of receding ash
upon those purple peaks, but find none.
The swell of waves on Superior Lake out lined by red crayon
reflecting the fire band dividing heaven and earth.
Flames which hang in the balance bobbing the water.
360 degrees of splendor
36 degrees
my face is burnt froze
and tic
tic
What’s up with this Doc?
Try to let go…
Winter Warmer by the Lake
and firecrackers too—
a skating rink propelled by dancetacular 80’s beats…
Do you ever feel
like an anxious
tic
tic
You know-
Tell me..
What’s up
Doc?
I can’t wake up without my shot
of caffeine—
can’t move without my morning fix
and yet I sit here stupefied
wishing to purge from my nervetwitchous veins
this cackling elixir of electricity
which powers
this days tic tic twitch.
Do not look at me
to validate
you
r sin
s
Do not look at me
to validate you
r time card
Do not look at me
to validate you
I am my own mess to figure out.
i wake up this morning to find my midnightblue car splattered in white paint
or is it snow
?
tiny white dots
like powdered sugar on a chocolatecarcake
i touch them
and am momentarily inclined to lick my finger
-
all that remains of ten thousand trees
charred white confetti
launched from the tinderbox heart of Los Angeles
down of Angels feathers
40 miles enroute
to find me
the whole county is covered
in the scales of our history
the antithesis of a blanket of snow
the antithesis of the symbol confetti
my lungs are having a pity party
my psyche is tinged
with the scorch of a mother’s sorrow
sometimes I just wish the weather would shift gears— returning long
forgotten memories— tossed coins in well and something happens—
the chill of you th returns (with thoughts and eyes upon)—
the sound of fall -in leaves- crunch beneath me— feet on long walks home
with feathers— tripping on cracks in concrete image s of pools
and tiny streams— making their way from drops of clouds— to paths— to
see -all- leading to and from pieces of -me- a perfect tapestry
interwove in— constant battle of staying together and
making art of this war as I fight for my rite to come undone—
I am the crashing motion of oceans reign upon her shore—
in constant acts of coming undone due to wishful shifts in whether—
I am the pitter-patter movement of oceans rain upon her floor—
in constant acts of coming undone and sewing self back together—
Synthetic sounds are invasive: penetrative and
One must be willing to take them in picture
This: a man embracing His
Woman a man—letting the muse
In elusively that digital soul coursing through making networks of movement and you Are the sun the stars and the water molecules are all dancing along
Acoustic sounds are embracive: they comfort
You let you ride on the tangibility—the safety
Of the restraint on the rollercoaster with out relying on the depth of you
r mind… a man -riding His.
A solid sense of control
Negating one will shift you
Negating balance -observations of the presence of digital soul.
THIS infatuate, like,
part of me
is you
and in pursuit
of fuel
Im AFlame
aborning
absolution
ABlaze within
concentric rings aflame—aside
you sun
I aclastic moon
just beyond view
at the seam of our horizon
present
manifest
invisible orbit
spinning constant
chasing your pull, im drawn—
ink from well destined to taint the sky
darkness, beyond, beauty, i want you TO SEE what lays beyond the flighty vaporeal clouds…
-Me.
