Saturday, December 19, 2015

the hot touching the cold.

0. my body is growing longer; i'd like it to stop. i wrap my feet in plastic and dangle them into ice water- i had seen this on tv once. it makes you stop growing- stop falling. stop embarrassing yourself. i am ice dunked in water. i have to pretend this, because i want to be in porn one day; i want to be oversexed, yes, i really think this that directly. i want to be smeared in glow in the dark halloween body paint much more than anything else. it is the same as being a baby and spitting all your food out.
this, of course, is an affair that will ultimately rearrange itself into the bottom of my mind- the very end. the top of a glacier is only ten percent of it. it sticks out of the water. it is the facade, the paraded around face. that ten percent needs to be chipped away at. the part of the mind hardest to connect to. the stuff one might as well give up on.

0. the body grays and we've decided not to leave it: "i don't want anything anymore but i continue to have it." the sky goes a hot-mustard as the heat waves emitting from the body carry themselves across it. the sand i trudge into and out of is blue, a blue i'm ruining. this landscape's bottom-half has been telling me what i am. also, has been telling me "life is a journey". when a sunset tears clouds apart along the gentle sky it's because the end of the day destroys.
0. in the distance i see my future speeding up toward me- a really fast bird. suddenly, i am two different people: the one that thinks and me.

here we have collections of land from other parts of the world we never went to and will never go to because they have changed so much that they don't exist anymore. pangea is no longer. we cannot go back nor can we go forward. not today. we cannot give to the tall rise of the sun- maybe a few generations from now, but not any time soon. we do not know anything except what we do not need to know. we are becomers which is nice. i look forward to sinking into the degeneration i see around me.
now is not the time to focus on falling in love. there is no path for it. we must bulldoze.
also, this is not a time for teaching, for learning. and there are no secrets to be kept. we reverberate our secrets without words. everyone knows we all have secrets. we can see them inside the eyes of one another. i'm not surprised by anything anymore.
the thousand yard stare: this is a wound we are in, coolly talking inside itself. everything has been done before at this point except this wound healing itself entirely. we gather inside it, cajoling it to make sense of what it is experiencing. we must dissect it.

i am now taking pictures of the vandalism under a train overpass, vaguely aware that i'm really laying belly-up on a couch. "dirty ghetto stoners". i find myself becoming calmed; being explained. there was a time when everybody knew the music did not need to change. and then, the music changed. it went on to reflect an industry.
war is a sin is what i've learned in the drums of splendor. prostitution is what it is the harp strings fluttered across my skin. most of what we do is unnecessary. the world is starving.
i'm trying to practice this acceptance, this buddhism thing, because i so want to be that way: humbled by my suffering, even inspired by it. but i am angry. my acceptance thing happens because i think too much. it drives me somewhere, but not toward acceptance... i'm driven somewhere in which things are not how they are inside, and there's nothing i can really do about it.

i don't remember what you were doing but there was something about you, in that exact moment, that made you out to be a birch tree. road signs were everywhere- but too, you. a baby tree- a baby birch, white and wintery, upright, narrow...mythical, somehow. old birches aren't around anymore, they're ghosts. they still appear because they were the color ghosts are in the first place.
they're ghosts that didn't have funerals, so they're heavier than even us. their shadows are tales of honesty, of stillness. established truths. you can walk away from such, but when you go back, it'll still be there.
i know you are still there and i know that i am still fixated on you, an old portrait of a tree that was once very little, having only a few branches. i meditate on your growth, on a fantasized growth of us together. but i'm not a birch tree. i'm not even a tree. i'm a person that continues to walk around, else, baking in the sun, letting out fumes...blindly, i set myself on fire, thinking about how i knew you once. i do know something else. i know you are still rooted in the same spot- that you are out there, that you are not only out there but you are safe.

i claim my own transparency, but i'm beginning to see a shape surrounding my body- my sense of being in a universe- i'm seeing a little better, reflected in everything else along with my failures. something is beautiful and i grew ashamed of how beautiful it was. all the waters are polluted anyway. the ghosts who are given funerals have no where to go. we are all stuck here, surrounded by these waters drowning us.

when i see the sky spread milk frothing throughout the sea, my walls soften and speak- short-bursting particles of electricity listening to new rivers. current events. i know every molecule like how i know myself. the teeth of the heavier clouds sink slowly into the surface of the skin of first my walls, then deciding if i'm next.

0. when i think of your soul i think of mine.
when the revolution takes place, it's because we've all gone insane. we are leaves set on fire, crinkling ablaze. fire spreads- fire will be alright.