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Other:
or How I Finally Recognized and Named The Third Person and Learned to Love the Balm
"There's a random painted highway/And a muzzle of bees/My sleeves have come unstitched/From climbing your tree
And dogs laugh, some say they're barking/I don't think they're mean/Some people get so frightened/Of the fences in between
And the sun gets passed from tree to tree/Silently, and back to me/With the breeze blown through/Pushed up against the sea/Finally back to me
I'm assuming you got my message/On your machine/I'm assuming you love me/And you know what that means" - Muzzle of Bees
we are all lightning and when we are all lightning there is no news
we branch and out of the morning we come with our tongues clenched lightly in our teeth our skin filled with so much more than just this fluid, but longing, longing! Everything spins, under a great embrace of clouds. In this moment there are green leaves and whirling atoms ("careening astronauts and bank clerks glancing at the clock before lunch; actresses cowling at light ringed mirrors and freight elevator operators grinding a thumbful of grease on a steel handle; student riots; know that dark women in bodegas shook their heads last week because in six months prices have risen outlandishly how coffee tastes after you've held it in your mouth, cold a whole minute.") in every moment stretches a gulf of space between particles, every moment crossed defies Zeno, defies the half distances between us and I cannot hide the impact of my life from anyone-- no outlashing violence against anything else will ever conceal me, or make me more confidential in my utterances ("All you know I know:").
O mirror! O! Pour me endlessly on the heads of the others, let me be united with them again. Make me rain, make me water endlessly. One day I'll reflect nothing in that mirror, distorted as I'll be into slender finitude, a smudge, glare of black on glass. Cannot enter the reflection in front of me and so I'm left imagining.
I assented to this exchange, this quest to leave our beloved borderlands behind, cross those forgotten bridges and unravel the City of the Markets of the Dead. We were pointed arrows now, gimlet tips at the heart of the Market. No. Food for a tapeworm, I realized: a lithe step into the bowels of the City to push it from within and let it devour itself.
O my beloved, I thought in a moment—craven tongue, curled to sup the light right off the surface of the world. O did you then consume me? devour my skin the liquor of my warm neck —
—until my interruptions pulsed again and sleep rode down on me.
Pain in the hands, a feeling like smoke between the joints. NO, like mucus hovering on the top lip. Crude, tickling, unforgettable. What does he plan for a gift for her?
The young boys stand at the entrance of the vast steel culvert, their futures unwritten. They grip pistols, rifles, memories yet to be marred. A sound like wind in high tension wires: water running on steel, and echoes of forgotten footsteps. They walk forward so slowly but with a kind of mad joy in their faces, moving toward adventure.
"It's almost gone/The night is dissolving/In a cup God lifts/To toast the lightning
Lightly tapping/It's high-pitched and it hums
Your spine starts to shine/And you shiver at your soul/A fist so clear and climbing/Punches a hole/In the sky/
So you can see/For yourself/If you don't believe me/There's so much less/To this than you think"
—until my intentions pulsed again and morning rode down on me.
O City, your green will fade and we'll see through your trees at last and in your barrenness we will mourn your memory, our memory of you, my mindfull of wishes and heartbeats, skins of meadows, eyes like bricks and butterflies, the great release of air, an exhalation of my entire body. Lost! Lost in the act of simply turning around
metanoia
first we decided to map it. He'd not given us a timeline. So we determined to do the job right, ascribe every contour of the Market. In the naming of the thing, we could kill it. A sudden vision crossed my mind that I suspected had also crossed hers. I gripped her hand a moment, and she smiled at me, confirming my notion. I mouthed the question at her, "Kiki?" and she nodded. We knew we'd need to recruit at least one other
and that our favorite goddess-manchild whom we'd loved for so long would fit the bill.
("I can feel the heat closing in feel them out there making their moves, setting up their devil doll stool pigeons, crooing over my spoon and dropper")
"his goal in life was to be an echo" -hummingbird
or How I Finally Recognized and Named The Third Person and Learned to Love the Balm
"There's a random painted highway/And a muzzle of bees/My sleeves have come unstitched/From climbing your tree
And dogs laugh, some say they're barking/I don't think they're mean/Some people get so frightened/Of the fences in between
And the sun gets passed from tree to tree/Silently, and back to me/With the breeze blown through/Pushed up against the sea/Finally back to me
I'm assuming you got my message/On your machine/I'm assuming you love me/And you know what that means" - Muzzle of Bees
we are all lightning and when we are all lightning there is no news
we branch and out of the morning we come with our tongues clenched lightly in our teeth our skin filled with so much more than just this fluid, but longing, longing! Everything spins, under a great embrace of clouds. In this moment there are green leaves and whirling atoms ("careening astronauts and bank clerks glancing at the clock before lunch; actresses cowling at light ringed mirrors and freight elevator operators grinding a thumbful of grease on a steel handle; student riots; know that dark women in bodegas shook their heads last week because in six months prices have risen outlandishly how coffee tastes after you've held it in your mouth, cold a whole minute.") in every moment stretches a gulf of space between particles, every moment crossed defies Zeno, defies the half distances between us and I cannot hide the impact of my life from anyone-- no outlashing violence against anything else will ever conceal me, or make me more confidential in my utterances ("All you know I know:").
O mirror! O! Pour me endlessly on the heads of the others, let me be united with them again. Make me rain, make me water endlessly. One day I'll reflect nothing in that mirror, distorted as I'll be into slender finitude, a smudge, glare of black on glass. Cannot enter the reflection in front of me and so I'm left imagining.
I assented to this exchange, this quest to leave our beloved borderlands behind, cross those forgotten bridges and unravel the City of the Markets of the Dead. We were pointed arrows now, gimlet tips at the heart of the Market. No. Food for a tapeworm, I realized: a lithe step into the bowels of the City to push it from within and let it devour itself.
O my beloved, I thought in a moment—craven tongue, curled to sup the light right off the surface of the world. O did you then consume me? devour my skin the liquor of my warm neck —
—until my interruptions pulsed again and sleep rode down on me.
Pain in the hands, a feeling like smoke between the joints. NO, like mucus hovering on the top lip. Crude, tickling, unforgettable. What does he plan for a gift for her?
The young boys stand at the entrance of the vast steel culvert, their futures unwritten. They grip pistols, rifles, memories yet to be marred. A sound like wind in high tension wires: water running on steel, and echoes of forgotten footsteps. They walk forward so slowly but with a kind of mad joy in their faces, moving toward adventure.
"It's almost gone/The night is dissolving/In a cup God lifts/To toast the lightning
Lightly tapping/It's high-pitched and it hums
Your spine starts to shine/And you shiver at your soul/A fist so clear and climbing/Punches a hole/In the sky/
So you can see/For yourself/If you don't believe me/There's so much less/To this than you think"
—until my intentions pulsed again and morning rode down on me.
O City, your green will fade and we'll see through your trees at last and in your barrenness we will mourn your memory, our memory of you, my mindfull of wishes and heartbeats, skins of meadows, eyes like bricks and butterflies, the great release of air, an exhalation of my entire body. Lost! Lost in the act of simply turning around
metanoia
first we decided to map it. He'd not given us a timeline. So we determined to do the job right, ascribe every contour of the Market. In the naming of the thing, we could kill it. A sudden vision crossed my mind that I suspected had also crossed hers. I gripped her hand a moment, and she smiled at me, confirming my notion. I mouthed the question at her, "Kiki?" and she nodded. We knew we'd need to recruit at least one other
and that our favorite goddess-manchild whom we'd loved for so long would fit the bill.
("I can feel the heat closing in feel them out there making their moves, setting up their devil doll stool pigeons, crooing over my spoon and dropper")
"his goal in life was to be an echo" -hummingbird