Wednesday, May 18, 2016

the course of knowing.

i feel everything i want, which is always. you have always wanted me. you have always loved me. i'd never needed to question it. i have always been in touch with my genius. it has always been the fault of everybody else. i have always had a mission. it has always been kept on the down-lo so that i may not find out. i find out always.
consuming drugs has always been permissible. backing away and running free at my whim without needing to explain myself to loved ones has always been permissible.
i live in the middle east staring between the cracks of walls to see what is outside which is not paradise, but always. snakes undulate about my body to teach me how to see how they see. i've always known how to hold vision closely without allowing myself to bring it any closer. the snakes measure their lengths against my body after covering it with their smells. all i remember is feeling their temptations to understand not just myself but the walls i lean against and every microbial breeding on my skin.
pleasures shift as the world shifts on its axis and we lose our equilibrium. the word has still always been always. we bare ourselves in mud and quit the shit with wondering who we are.
breathing has become my absolute, my crowning. glory, my ability to breathe is what saves me. breathing is knowing for me. breathing is imploring for me. breathing is singing for me. i've always been a "good" singer, just nobody has believed me.

i hardly notice this crowning. it doesn't wound anybody.

i will be here forever- open and closed, aiming to jump over enormous rifts in attempts to fly as the gliding hawk. continuously i injure myself, laying still, interpreting the dance of the clouds as that which is healing my body inside.
there is no attempting to feed rifts, not even with my pooling, healthy blood. there is no attempting to meditate on what they are, as there is no meditating on what i am. its truth is a wound that does not know, is without pleasure, will never be saved, stinks of open wound; its truth is one unable to give. ultimately, its truth is as i am- its truth is now.
the furthest i learn about rifts is they are very slowly being swallowed into the center of the earth, who will regurgitate them back upward to the surface. it does not have everything it wants. it does not want to be sickened to high fever, which it often is. we feel it and deny it.
i spend time in the rifts, staring at their structures surrounding me. i worry they are to swallow me, but i am always found. in my nobility i believe i will heal them, heal us all. i fall for a notion that i am a god- the god denying, whose pretense, whose countenance is all i remember.

i run to find something to make up to notice and perhaps to wound. i see the deer eat tall weeds as they watch me. they do not notice their own antlers as i notice their antlers. perhaps i have antlers i do not notice that they notice. i am barred from seeing myself as one incorporate. this world is one utopian and permeated.
i am hungry for new stories in spite of my filled appetite. i make them up; i milk them from myself, blowing them away as bubbles. i faint after each time i do this.
shifting my pleasures, i wish to forget that which i cannot find. the light shifts new power- i've always wanted to take away the death of that which rests in my blind spot. i've always wanted to see all. i put my hands inside that which has been buried, like a child, a surgeon existential i've always known i am. catacombs remain how they always have- brave and unrelenting, but sacred in their stillness. relics are all i was never inside before as i resisted them. i apologize to them for not treating them as i would like to be treated. i go deaf. i lose my voice, and my eyesight, to become a grain of quartz. when the earth is to forget itself again and shift its pleasures, upon my own development paralleling, i will run again to find impossibilities.