of the star.
The sad lonely people lovingly and unknowingly feed the animals poison so that there is a sense of companionship.
We choose the entry way among yellow confetti.
The teal blue life on land.
Bronze blades shoot from seeded heart.
Thorns find their way into penile tubes.
Flimsy, fragrant bird-song branches.
Dirt mounds pile awhile.
Neat ballerinas of postured grass.
Stones under feat lead around and around to sacrificial mound.
Small insects walk on water, leap across surface.
A large stone protrudes form the dark-wet mud as the head of rebirth; nose first, sensing its birth.
Further off into the mud there is a small pool that is the hole to the rest of the world.
Long paths turn and move as paint to be walked on, lived through; with feeling mixing colors.
The powerful architecture sits at the edge of nature and distance from it.
Earth massages tired feet.
Upside down pyramids rest on small truck of armored barking bark.
The sound of grounded steps calm.
Many scents of nature allow many scents of life.
Roots rise in designs as art of soil, as reminder, as remainder, as retaining its qualities.
I let go of myself, finally, while on the toilet in the park and was no longer “I” but “we;” for this I am very proud of myself.
Flowers attract buzzing people; there is a long history of this.
Puzzling tree inspiring one to S&M through the enigma of spiked ropes and painful plugging toys.
Nature’s open sex scent is most arousing.
Honey suckle drips: vaginal fruit mouth feel.
We tried to figure out what happiness meant, and with walking sex the city crumbled beneath the sound of fuck, glowing. Green, green, give roses thorns first, green; from me sticking to you, green, fall leaves falling; sun clouds melt green into wild rivers, silent pond.
We see these, off away is its breeze, off in the vastness of open moisture.
On the subway, I sat next to a woman that I wanted to talk to, sleep with. In my nervous inability to communicate past the quiet and the noise within, I thought I noticed that she had a sniffling, running nose. But after awhile I realized she was crying. I also saw a name tattooed on her wrist. And soon, between tears, a few inches from me, she pulled out a book. And as I continued to sadly lust after her, I began to feel her as a person, her who was right next to me, her side to mine. But the book she pulled out was about how emotionally abused woman can break out of the harmful and destructive places their lives have ended up in. And she read and wiped her eyes for a long while it seemed. I remained silent but was aching and beating myself for not saying anything because I felt drawn to her so strongly. And as I looked briefly at her again and again feeling like I was thinking about her as her and thinking about what she was reading and why and what her life must be like, I began to feel a deep empathy. But I still wanted to know her and was still attracted to her and began imaging what our life would be like together as a couple and how wonderful that might make both of us feel. Thinking of this, I glanced over at her again, and she shut her book, and I saw her bookmark, which was a picture of her baby child, and for a second I couldn’t breath. I then turned away, and I thought some more and considered again what our life as a couple would actually be like. I still wanted to talk to her; I still wanted her. But now I thought the her I wanted was really the real her. I ended up taking the train a few stops past where I intended but still not saying anything to her. And as I left, I made eye contact with her a few times and swore at myself for not even asking her what was wrong while I just weakly sat right next to her thinking about her while she cried and I kept thinking. So as the train left, and my thoughts, other than strong self-depreciation of confidence of communication and strength as a person, were that I somehow got something out of this: but what did she get? But I noticed at the last second, when I had left the train but before the train had gone, standing still near the window of the seat that I was in, our eyes meeting again through the glass, and I wonder, wonder a lot of things.
Sing/Sing!
Sunlight grows with the time of day into darkness that is its own melody moving along with the force of pounded drums. This day the wet lips smile with blood, the spurt of death's passion and life's love. Tables made of fine woods remind one of nature, soiled with the scented wax of dripped memory. Because this is the namesake of our language. Smoke is absorbed into our hair and clothes. We die quietly as we lived, embodying the sensuality of fragility. Growing past what is known. Leaves of red swaying with the wiring limbs of a small tree. Eating with our hands, we feel fingertips on our lips—feeding each other silently. Smells of the live body of the one next to us letting us know that we too are there and not alone. Green erupts into circles of burning orange, blue and white lining edges—shadows cast shadows on shadows. We blend and flow together within the sea.
A mother gives birth to a baby and is happy within the beauty of birth. But she then suddenly starts screaming because she realizes that her child will have to suffer and feel pain in life and will also someday die. With the suffering of this, the way that she is able to know love grows.
A child finds maturity in finding that all people are children; a parent's child finds love for parents in finding this: the only ones I ever loved, I was never good at loving.
Sounds of smoke. Sad plays broken notes—while down the hall in the room, we stare lonely at the light bulb, lightly brightening our isolation, flickering on and off. ...And the trees they set the night alive with their grabbing, moon-light fire-fingers... The window shade is woven so tight that no light shines through—but this is okay because it itself is beautiful.
As the years passed, so too did the tension build of the accumulation of internal suffering; many years of struggle went by like this, many years of an absolute state of isolation away—but also with how time touched slow-fast, hard-soft—as with the ways of hunger wanting food unseen and separation, violent shattering scattered… there came a time when all this projected itself in a different way of seeing.
Drunk eyes of brutal love children wild in the glory horror of day.
What is it to understand any of whatever this is?
How can it be possible for us to love our parents after this?
A meditation of identity in bondage where a bird swallows the moon and turns to stone—and then lives in a chamber where the many birds come—a chamber where birds sing!
Glowing incredible yellow—spirals out to night's blue compelling darkness, surrounded in seminal cream of meaning…
Red rust forest green orange dust moving light creating destroying…
An eyeball rests bridged between two mountainous fireballs above the children sitting grounded in the dirt.
And you are taunted with the repetition of words that say: "I'm going to shake my dick like a wild stick, and you can go fuck the hole of your creation."
Expressions Of Joy, Painting Of A Thousand Different Moans
From knowing the picture of rust, we can know that the languid nausea has its own symphonic language, symptomatic paradigm, always an elaborate storm of sound’s smell, viscera strings strung on virgin violin now played loudly.
Smooth moon aching, soft period.
Saffron breast.
Girl lathers soap of rock milk.
Boy hears the sunlight of raining sunset.
Seeds of cumin crushed between strong thighs.
She is he, having been boiled with meat.
He is she, smearing yolk.
That is to say, “We are there.”
Flood of colors is water wanting water.
Lipstick on muscled lips.
Sage sausage is made out of shaking togetherness.
Consecrate concern. Thanks given at the zeal of the discovery of meekness. Community rearrang
ing reason’s reasons: common hallow fills maternity’s often hollow rhythm, which is also made fricasseed by morning’s frequent mercies.
Finger shadow in bed cooks insecurity’s raw clothing, heating it up to delirious whisper.
Take the easy moments away, to feel, to allow the incubated dream that is shown to you only at rare sometimes.
Who Are We With These Eyes?
Eyes open to rolling vineyard hills.
In a bed of cork, we screw.
Noise of tin again, juniper green.
Soft wrinkle twists of skin.
We have forgotten what age is.
Blue spice bark on triumphant twisted trunk.
Pebble seeds: fruitless berries that are of other uses than food.
Ripened: awoke, awakened; dancing, step.
Steps dripping moist dream’s dry dreaming.
We put ourselves into an enormous fruit-bowl and wait for our dreams to become real.
We begin ripping apart our newly discovered possibility until it is in tiny pieces that we have trouble putting back together; we try to discover our own recovery: for it is us anyhow that is feeding.
Sleep to water—allowing our allowance of ability to accept mortality; telling ourselves the truth about the invisible world of other people; seeing this; feeling what is felt; understanding the senseless; finding our own part of sensual wholeness.
A man saw combat almost fifty years ago yet whistles and sings alone in his small
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