Sunday, July 26, 2015

circe of waterhouse.

there's a place on my head
fit for a crown- i cling not to it

but to my trunk between that crown
and my roots that

tolerate anything, i think- i don't

i'm a motel hide-out thing
that the cops target regularly

they saw the tree and me leave

and they took our love away

it hurt me and anyone who i am not. i've

made myself at home, paralleling
empty-space, motel-avoiding.

my life unravels attuned to a
gathering of a private
alchemy- something

i have done on my own, everyday.

tearing a new one in the
universe, itself

supping on its own lost soul- the only
separated thing i know.

banisher of time's rule, unhaving
of law, inky
baritone ballad- i see you

in the lost crops, where i used to

hide and seek, but i wore a skirt
one day

and imagined a pinch on my leg
that reminded me of pictures i've seen

of spiders sensing human

singing about how it feels to know
everything about right now
because right now is all

and i began singing along with the spiders
and the crops that also sang.

but the cops targeted these crops
and told me to leave for good

because my skin was coming off
and it made me look foolish.

i was

the butterfly of the moment.

these days, i'd rather not go places.
i have to hold my breath, especially

when i need to let out an oxygen build-up.

sometimes i need to scream outside,
but i stop myself.

and i hang my head, because

i know that overdosing myself
with that weight

of lava
is only going to further complicate

crazy map- further me from a treasure

the truth beyond-

unveiled behind the
curtain of beliefs/no beliefs.

i'll either have a seizure
or i won't.

belief rises in the east, beautiful sunrise
going hand in hand
with loss of belief, setting
in the west- beautiful sunset.

and i live here.

i live here, all dualistic.

reality, of course, is traceless- that
directionless stroke- directionless

stroke that seems separate-

but the leaves hit it.
the leaves go skeletal in it, but reality-stream makes

its way

around these leaves

shit, this teaches me.

you teach me. if you cannot, i'm

so sorry- you cannot possibly
reach me.

on a vortex
i cast self out of myself, pregnant

with such.

i don't want old skin anymore. whoever
is after it can

have it.

shed, shed, shed.

we once were made of what we cannot
be without; we once all

held to each other, unabashedly

if you do not teach me, you do not
reach me,

because my fingertips are present elsewhere.
being unrequited to one


shed, shed, shed, skeletal leaf.

no place serves make-believe.