march stutters

I don't know how this works.  I know I told you about the one who loves oranges, the one by the river, the one in the river, the one river in the world, she loves you, she adores you, she always loved you and adored you and I think that's why she wouldn't let me forget you even after you were away and I thought that's what I was supposed to do.  I think I told you about oranges, and when she is opened up and I am there with her in the closed room that only the initiated ones can enter, the ones who have gone to the river, the ones who have been turned animal, I think I told you that when she opens and says pour yourself into me, I pour from my eyes, I rain from my eyes, and it was just between me and her.  Except, this is the exception, I guess it's true the mistress narrative/s, we write exceptions, the subject and the object is always the exception, and that would explain why you show up in the patterns of the paint of words that I throw around on these walls, that was a compliment, it's always true this is all true but I don't know if it has weight yet so I will have to wait but.  This is the exception, I thought it was her and the thing I have with her, she makes me rain, pulls it out from my belly through my eyes, except this.  Today it was all the things it was supposed to be when it was a morning, and it was not raining, and it was not midnight, and the one who is related to the chameleon in my head, or maybe so related that it is the same chameleon in my head, that one, says, come to me, son, come closer to me, and he says this chameleon he says, do not say you are ok when you are not ok, and that's when the blood of a tangerine starts to rain from my eyes.  this is not a response to that not to that i will write that under cover of a secret message this is not a response to that but only a way of getting the details right because they are important, and time is moving faster and i can't keep track of these scratches on my arms i don't know where they come from but i knew they would be coming, so this.  So this.
This is a body that is covered with the dust of dirty branches, and these are lips that crack from not enough rain and these are eyes that yield fruit when they are held, by your words, under your tongue, living in your throat, and they say aha aha i see exactly what you are saying and you say that is a terrible joke and i say this is a feather in your throat in the form of eyes, please let's travel somewhere together, spring is here and we really should get away and see something we've never seen before, and it might take an act of faith to see that this is where the ocean learns the rhythm of the tools in the earth, and the earth writes himself to sleep with the songs from the water, and that they know each other without ever touching ever again and that's mythic enough, but maybe that's good enough for them because they don't have to move in human skin, and maybe they don't remember how hungry it gets, except maybe they do, and maybe they really do, and maybe when it rains they are not crying over us but from inside of us and that this is only what we're supposed to do. 
And then this, less about the body, but not at all apart from the body, this Abelard and Heloise, when I first heard that story I felt the bones in my chest start to break apart like they were brittle like they were withering like a bird, and I thought it was about something that had already happened, and you hadn't happened to me yet, and it still doesn't break me apart to make the ribs crackle like sticks in my straw body, not yet, but something there says I think I know, I think I know, I think I know why the dog howls at the moon, and we've done this before, at least once before, and this time we switched parts, I was her and you were him and now I'm older and a teacher and now you're tracking the prints that nuns leave in the snow, and their tracks have all the marks of a beautiful wolf who doesn't know that when she walks alone, she is divine, and this breakable loneliness is our goat song, and that these prints have all the rhythms of a goat at midnight, when the mushrooms are inside the ribs and the eyes are all the spectrums of every tangerine in the world, and this is when I start to turn, and my hands are startled, here comes a poem in the middle of a crowd, screens that number five and eight start to reflect the images of what we see when we are in the middle of musky bodies in an electronic time, somewhere in the middle of a future we don't remember agreeing upon, and these hands start to shake, because I was not expecting, I was not expecting, not expecting hands to grow pregnant with trembling, and this is where my teeth would start to dig into the metal on my lip, wishing for blood, just a drop to get through this long night of reflected master narratives turned to mistresses, and this is where my hip bones start to pulse with the beats that make the flesh start to turn, this something else is what I was born like, something else is where I was born, by the river, becoming animal, and haunted by the thought that if I could find you in this forest, I would trace your eyes to the fur under your arms, the layer that speaks of where we first met, and where we always meet, and I would drink from your fur, even though one drop it would take only one drop to know everything we are not supposed to know, but I would drink, until you would remember what it feels like when the earth is raining over you, and the ocean is raining inside you.

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