cgs/y moors/the wolf @ the door

there is a brother.  that's already been established.  there are two, in fact, and it's not a new fact.  already established.  and the one who walks on the surface of the world is walking in grey tones, looking at the world through the eyes of a broken wolf, and the one who is under the surface is seeing the colors that only wolves can see when they've crossed over into the underworld.

this will all shift soon enough to that one, the dead one, who wants to speak about some things that have been bothering him since long before he woke up, and he thinks it might be important to send some messages to the living, and he is apparently of the same bent tongue clan as me, and is practicing painting with his tongue.

but first, a shift to mark on the trunk of this summer, because we are all fourteen and need to telegraph every single turn, he, the first one, not the first first one, has been stuck in the space between the dog and the wolf for the better part of a year now, and hasn't yet noticed that the space has shifted, and the wolf is taken over the area, and walks through the forests of desire at three in the morning, night after night.   it might be him, it might be other, it might be both and more.  there are those who spend their lives becoming tamed, and their stories and journeys are inspiring and often very sweet.  but there are also those who spend their lives in a long process of shifting toward the opposite of taming, and not quite wildness, not the same thing as the unleashed fire of the very young or the very drunk.  there are those who take to taming with the same despondence, or repugnance, of the class that never has any of their affairs in order at the end of their lives, who hold boxes of papers and pots filled with secrets that leave the living puzzled over the strange signs and ciphers of their recently deceased.

he remembers how the girl-boy lover once told him that he became more animal when their was heat running through the veins, when yellow candles burned in closets that couldn't be opened without a tornado or a flood, and he wanted to tell her that she woke this up, it was her and not him that brought it to the surface, because when two animals meet under the light of the moon, there are rarely any good decisions to be made that don't lie in full accord with the urgent shiftings in the pulse.  the pulse is the heartbeat of the world, the first drum, the first song to god.

he wanted to tell her so many things, but so many of their turns left him speechless, all he was left with were words dancing around love, and sometimes dancing in the fire that is love, and sometimes going beyond whatever definitions of love might be running through the fire in the head at the time.  he also wanted to tell her that for him, love is a bell, and is always a bell, and that bell didn't belong to anyone but oshun, who rules the rivers of the body, the pulse is a bell, a cry to wake up the living, to become conscious to the moment, and in the moment, we are all becoming animal.

especially this very moment, and this is the shift, and not entirely comfortable, because her face changed somewhere on a very close side street, and the face he is speaking to at three in the morning isn't the one he remembered from before, but he can't tell her that, not yet, because she doesn't know yet, or if she does, she's not sure what this all is supposed to mean, and is trying to puzzle these things out herself, playing with the same strings in the dark that light up his darkest hours like a firefly.  and the strings are the very same chords that might weave a heart to another heart, or might make a new story, or might be simply a golden thread that's waiting for someone to notice.

but it's terribly hot these days, and sometimes it takes more energy to notice, and sometimes the sheets are already too warm for one body to bear.  best to leave it for the moon to decide, best to leave it for the wolves to reason out on their own, and report back, like a story that comes directly from the land of the dead.

part ii
the brother speaks from the land of the dead

you make me sad, you make my heart spin in new directions like a butterfly, you make me miss the fathers.  there aren't enough fathers in the stories any more, because you're living in a time when no one believes them.  love for the father, from the father, is a door to secrets, but all you can see are the ways some fathers have of inclining packs of people to deny their animal nature and kill like only people know how to kill.  but i learned some things in the seasons i've spent under the ground, and i know your caves, and i know the secrets that are buried there.

i won't tell you anything new, nothing you don't already know, but i'll tell you in a way that might be like a song, so you will listen to the song you forgot.

nothing makes the dead laugh more than hearing all the complicated ways you have of talking about fucking, so that you don't think that you're just talking about fucking.  nothing makes the dead cry more than waiting for you to recognize the spark of your real nature, and watching you try to figure out new ways to put it out.

grief is the fuel of the fire that burns your veins to wake you up in the morning, and forgetting is the sand on the fire.  some of you love as if you're still trying to grow up, where each lover is something to get over so that the experience can live somewhere in the part of the belly that carries bitterness; some of you love as if every new lover has the potential to carve their name on your ribs while you're sleeping.  maybe you should choose a little bit better, because they indeed do have the potential, and these are your ribs, and you have to walk with them, and they will be the bones you turn in the dark when you are awake in this very curious dream.

if i had the chance to live in a body until i was shaped like yours, i would like to think i would do it differently, but we know you well enough to know that we would always do the same things.  that lover that you told too much, the one who could suck out your secrets with her tongue, she is written on the walls of time long before you or her were born.  that lover you were afraid of, the one who made your tongue dumb, is written on the same walls.  nothing changes the things that are written except for the times when lovers speak their love to each other, and that's when a new story begins, and a new series of threads start to explode from the mouths of the worms who live here.  the ones who eat the dead are also the ones who write the footsteps of the living, and the raw matter is all the same.

another secret.  this raw matter is never base, although it might be called that, there is nothing ordinary about the cells that make up the burning in the skin that knows longing.  longing is where stories come from, any story worth telling, and any other story will bore me back to the grave.

so i won't stop to hear any war tales that are not based on longing, and i won't listen to tales that move for the love of money or power, because they are the ones that remind us in the end we are all skeletons, and we already know that.

and so do you.

longing is the key, longing is the doorway to a long road, longing is the reason you're here, and you all cry and cry and cry because longing is so long and the night is so dark, and you wonder why you are here, and if we tell you that you are here for longing, it will be up to you to figure out what to do with that....
(cont'd.)