Monday, March 28, 2011

march mark

this is when i started marking the ground, orange blossoms in my fingers that couldn't remember the signs, when things started to take a serious turn, and the heart showed up in the firma that my fingers couldn't create without flaws, this heart, not strong yet, not made of rubber yet, is breakable, but even in the weakest hours has shown a remarkable capacity to heal itself, it knows the signs better than i think it does, is stronger than rubber, and can cause memories to gather with a cellular force that makes them grow like children. this is not a tribute to the children, it is not about the children, we love the children, this is not about them, this is the marking on the ground that was based on air and air carrying water coming to understand there is more to understand, and everything was knowable if the elements were laid bare under the light of the moon, or now just stars, and it was all in the details, and the signs were coded in the details and there for knowing through the mouth, through the hungry mouth that is skin, sucking in ink, saliva, and crystal tears until it turns salty with longing. the details, the moment, skin beneath two folds of cloth, a belly button with a hole into other worlds filled with narcotic ghosts, the button touches against the other button, pressing for skin beneath the cloth to breathe through contact with other skin, and the belly beneath the cloth begins to thunder, and no narcotic can darken the lightning, there above the head, then turned to two stars in perfect symmetry, thunder and lightning turned to a perfect symmetry, the belly begins to thunder, under a moon somewhere, when it was not raining, orange blossoms fall through my hands liker details. a new spice to your skin, the season has shifted into what it was planning on becoming behind our backs before our eyes, this new spice is a recent blend from the sisters of the mermaid that now dances on your arm, spice of indecision, vixen, and scales shed underwater. who knows, the fish don't even know. mermaid dances on your arm, now toward my belly, now in the moonlight, now like orange blossoms through the detail of your fingers. i want to remember everything but i haven't been keeping track of this with words, my mouth is full of nouns and verbs, and that's enough to keep tasting and wait before speaking, adding the spices that make it alluring to your mermaid's sisters, it's not ready yet, because it's not done yet, i have to wait, to hold off, to see the pattern on the ground, and i forgot what this sign means, it repeats too many times to fall into the right column or the left column, but i think it has something to do with the dead, but it always has something to do with the dead. you know me by now. i mark the ground, i read the marks i make on the ground, and i can't remember what they were supposed to mean, no one asked me for a promise, no dead ones came calling for their perfect offering, no weather spirits come asking why we have not visited, because we know we are living in their veins these days, and the siren on the moon says that she is too deep in the ocean to need promises any more. but the dead still rise, and the dogs still chase their shadows that look like us, and the sisters of the sea rise up from the weight of a body on a body to make a promise in reverse, and offer these small blossoms for the progression of the spirit, and this, the blossoming fingers and moonlit belly, is the place we left off last time, a hole marked in time, a hole that is not a place where unwanted things can enter, but where the air and the air that carries water might escape and find the buried treasure and wet scale shedding ghosts that move the world in ways that no marks can ever reveal, and no heart could ever understand.

Monday, March 21, 2011

angsty poem for sol(sssst)ace

they said i would see what i did not want to see.
and this ground starts to open.
and shadows of an old fear start to fall on the floor of a carpet covered with chalk.
and the steady patriarchal eyes that could stare down a rattlesnake start to rattle.
and the bones rattle from the nerves rattling in my limbs.
and the valley is inhabited by the living who are not sure they want to keep moving.
and those bones to protect from flying splinters are giving themselves to the light, to the air, to the open.
and these bones to shudder before turning this thing that was once still into a breath and a beat, are back from the dead.
and they said so many things.
and they left so many things out.
and they left so many things on the tip of the tongue, at the edge of the breath, the place where lovers shudder in the dark looking out at the edges of the same breath, the edges of the same world that holds its breath, and another season comes through the back door, because it's that time of the evening again,
and another season finds me somewhere in the dark, trying not to shake this tender breath awake, closing my eyes and pretending to be someone else.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

the matter

already i can't see. i came back after looking into the secret cave where reflections ask you what is the matter, and then make you matter by speaking you back into being. i came back after having a thousand things done to the insides, small adjustments that would make sense somewhere down the road when i was speaking with dogs about the things that the dead might teach us. i came back after fighting every impulse to avoid thinking about the things that i could lose, after losing my attachment to all of them, and after deciding which ones i wanted to keep, and which ones might keep me. these things became like spiders, weaving images of each other over the back of my eyelids, until i woke up and could not see any more. this is the weaker eye that is there for minor adjustments, things that cannot make sense when i see them, but will make themselves matter down the road.
this is a speaking subject dog, this dog says that it is time for the dead to enter into the realm of the living, this dog says that after a certain point, we cease to matter, and become spirits that occasionally haunt our own bodies. i would haunt my own body if it gave me license to haunt other bodies, but there is no license for that, it only comes with a desire for flight, for an escape out of the present through the holes in the body that mark a present that matters, and gives birth to other matters. i can't see, and i wonder what i have become, buying wine at 7 in the morning when i don't drink, and hoping these eye drops take the sting out of the things i did see, things that won't make sense until further down the road, and things that already matter. i already see that already there are things that matter, and making them matter is only a question of touching them in the dark to make sure there are not phantoms. i have no idea if the iroko scratches up and down my arm are the maps of a time when a real tree touched real skin, but i know that when i smell the leaf of something that is always already alive, i remember things i could not possibly know from empirical experience. in this new empire, there is nothing to fall, and no one to fiddle, because there are no leaders, and on my best days, there are no agendas in my pocket, and i.m not looking to uncover things from people who's intentions might not be honest.
this is the sight of an honest dog, cut to half, white and red to feed an obsession, and a command to stop looking forward and look down at the feet, because the future is told through our bones, on our bodies, in a moment that matters, that passes too quickly, that's too far to arrange with any swiss precision, but entirely possible, and it matters that it has started to matter to me.

Friday, March 11, 2011

deterritorializing the institutionalized body without organs

i want to see you leaving the hospital without any scars, but no one leaves without scars.

i want to see you leaving the things that were poisoning you back there where they can be put to earth, so they can become the next thing, and you can become the next thing.

i want to see you pushing forward with your head to taste the gorgeous holes in the world, the ones, only the ones that are capable of giving birth to you.

i want to see you spasming and twitching like a visionary saint during a 30-day fast when the godhead is deciding to explode you in a spiritual ecstasy in your heart in your soul & spilling over your pelvic bones.

i want to see you open your mouth for a sugar cube that will make you see sweet things, & tell me sweet things about what you do see.

i want to see you close some doors behind you until your least favorite bats suffocate to death, because there will always be new bats born on the walls of the caves of the world made of roads.

i want to see you want so much that your want becomes like clay, tangible and ripe for animation, dense enough to carry itself on a shallow river, & thick enough to cover over the holes in the roads of the world so you don't fall through, so you can't fall through, so you won't fall through when my head is turned.

i want to see your flickering faces growing still with zen or age, narcotics or laughter, still enough to hear me tell you that i want to make it so that you can't disappear if i turn around to see if you're still behind me, because my throat hurts too much to sing in the underworld today, and i'm scarred & spilled & sweet, and thirsty to taste your salt.

MANIFESTO OF CROSSED ONTOLOGIES Everybody (and by everybody I don ’ t mean everybody I think I mean one person, and I mean you, in par...