Disarmament from ropes, lead pipes and guns, I sit on a crooked, wet and splintered make-shift bench. I find myself amongst the rock crabs looking for safe cracks to hide myself in.
Noise he calls it when there are just too many voices, too many demands.
The ocean is a singular, rolling roar to beat the shit each grain, crack floating trees and with its winds, whip you back to gray fogs—no matter you came here to escape.
The weather teaches us to go humbly back to bed.
Now, this week all of those who left as ghosts are turning around to find me?
Last night, I dreamed of a black girl swinging from a tree and I knew where her family could find her. Mother cut the rope and she fell heavily through the limbs, but then stopped still in the tree and wrapped her arms around a perpendicular branch, but how did she do this in death?
Next scene, I am trying awfully hard to keep my balance atop a forty-foot pole, at least 22 if my exaggerations are carrying me again, sitting in a heavy, upholstered, wingback chair next to a Chinese elder who takes the blanket that forces me out. Yes, a chair on top of the pole and there is a blanket that is crowding my back and pushing me precariously forward and I regain my balance only after handing the man next to me this bulky and synthetic blanket.
But, this is how I live dear reader, at this lighted beach I tune down all of the scene and go instead to darkened basement rooms, the mysterious twilight neighborhoods of the night before. So is this any kind of art or spirituality? That I am only able to play a shadow in the crucifixion of myself? Or, is that the riddle solved? It’s not just myself, but everyone’s Self and their crucifixions are mine too? No wonder I barely find the energy for joy.
Men are that they might have joy and saviors will be nailed.
In that case, I want to be a man.
I saw the woman who wrote Sybil on a 70’s talk show someone uploaded to Youtube. She had an enormous sixties hairdo and a dress of shimmering pioneer style of that same era—to the wrists, to the floor, but hers oddly had a cut-out neckline and a side angle from the cameraman revealed a bandaid on her chest, a small one (the kind you put on a booboo). I thought, as if to reveal this, a broken heart, he (cameraman) could show the sticker it would prove what she’d hidden in those pages was bullshit. Because broken heart means broken mind in our speeded culture and re-integrated DOES and will take an entire lifetime, no matter if you rent jet skis or swim to Paris!
As a poet, you see once I get it on the page, lay out all those thoughts and feelings I can briefly come out of my head and look up and out into the world—to see the beauty of the day and not back and front. That’s why I do it. And, sometimes I’m not even sure that I am a poet, just someone who can’t stop writing, painting it on a page in order to see how I feel.
Some go out to see the world in order to write themselves into HEART. I move from heart inside the insular chambers just waiting to be born. I came out here to hide today. I hide in the out-of-doors, running from my own house.
Website—Sybil example, it takes an entire lifetime to integrate…
Reverently, quietly, humbly, just as much as counseling batons and my needs, my time dichotomies of the current socializations (flavor of the day psychologies).
Just sinking into the depths of I am sorry, I am your savior in my greatest humility—
I am allergic to both, but I wish I had a glass of wine and cheese and baguette right now and you in some kind of sailors cap with an ascot tied around your neck, sharing a cup of cabernet with me.
I think as one gets older it’s better to have something as solid as stone to lean yourself up against/on if you plan on staying here very long.
I’m starting to trip pretty hard out here at the beach. I think I’m better here than where? I don’t know and that scares me! And there isn’t anyone coming to get me! We are like intellectual, beautiful shut-in’s (she cooler and smarter than me) who could have something in this world if it weren’t for our heightened sensibilities, the payoff in multiple worlds might be even better, but for now we choose to be trampled rather than sell integral parts of ourselves away--for spirit encompasses all.
We came here to know, by experience, painting on computer pages, what the entire game will eventually be. My ear hurts again!
Do cats bury their pee to cover the scent or so it will last longer (scratch up sand)? Some questions appeal to everyone across the board--just the same as love and understanding.
I don’t know what I am doing, but like that she likes me and pays such close and lengthy time investigating anything I say, anything I produce, seeing and making an effort to understand and love me. Me, a lonely person who shouts out to God just allow me to show and share all of the LOVE I have to offer, but there aren’t many who have been worked enough, like swords in a fire, I can’t think of the WORD! But most of these will shrink (instead of shine) if fully enveloped in the red-gold licking flames—
Julia you are very brave in a small community like this—If not here where I hear you ask. Yeah, I never really could start my lie, (as in prescribed life) I just never quite took off and now I am at the end of the track never having gone anywhere according to common held worldly standards.
Would I be like her child? What I have always done to men? She would take care of me and tell me what to do and I, in blind faith and truth am eager to obey and cleave to her? I would get to be the boy who does something dumbly wrong like stop off for a Slurpee or smoke a single cigarette? Are either of these men anywhere near as smart and tasteful and beautiful?
We have royal tastes. I’ve never experienced being a man. Chris said it sounded like I was going towards a feminine relationship and I slammed the idea down so fast, but it is like he saw some shadow that proceeded me. There is no one here, but I feel, hear someone talking about me. In robotic voices that rip through the seams of the sky, snouting their way into my face no matter where I go to hide!
Maybe, I walk it off? I’m going deep inside and no sense of time. I’ve been watching a crow eat something off from a log. I don’t know what’s so good with that particular spot? I’d say it’s been at least an hour?
She’s choosing both, he for money and penis (?) and me for spirit, to have joy and men can have joy, women can do all the same things, just not with JOY! Lament the beauty of the servitude you left behind! God bless America! ERA, home of the free, but now the Islands of misfit boys shows the world just how awful we treat our equal women here! “Now would he just…” SLUT
Salt Lake (SL) Utah (UT) raised to be sex slaves, now here it is Kimberly, the anger!
I’m fucking mad, but as soon as the feeling starts to rise another comes with an eraser to wipe it all away and I can’t remember what I was saying? I’m all alone and that means an easy target. Humans must be pack animals as much as they are (p)art of a herd and then there are those rare types like me who delusionary? believe they are Gods, no need for a female….ess version distinction because a true God is both, just the highest of spirit, not a hog nor an eagle, but an observer who is especially keen on watching how the dominions (dominos) fall when they had say in effecting the curve!
We smile and howl around the spinning wheel. Oh, I’ve heard those Mormon girls are the best, like a pack of Manson’s, good girls who do anything you say because that is how they see God, a sexy, humorous and stern Daddy who can turn on the charm. All men in our lives did it to us, our entire lives—sexual protectors (not predators) only they could guard that key, smell us like soft, buttered loaves, steaming hot and ready to eat no matter the time of day. And no worries the Playboy co-worker told him, these will bear their testimonies of how the spirit whispered in their ear about how they always shall give no matter the roughness of the day and his deposit will feel like a gift to her.
It’s white that shines. I’m looking for a man I’m going to like better than a woman when it comes to strength?
When there aren’t enough men able to meet women the ones who get left out are those at the top and not those at the bottom. It’s another couple walking up the beach, three now and one single man with a red poodle. All are a bit over middle age, with weak knees and the same drive to get them to where they were in their thirties.
I got high without a kite as opposed to, as a kite. My ear is ringing.
Trained to believe it’s the devil that wants to keep me from being a sex slave. I’m doing what’s right! A glove always turned inside out to show it’s seams, if that’s the way you’ve always seen it worn then that is how it’s done!
Looks like you guess wrong on LA! Three times, no four if you include me because they told you Mormon girls were the best of both world’s heaven and hell! Oh, who you’d like to know?
Karyl, your show, Mary and me, that’s where I am in the line-up, fuck you! LA let you down, not me! Oh, and also behind Dutch tourists, oxygen carrying alcoholics, swims, b-movies, Merry Time chicken wings and the oil change in your car.
The nutria eat what the muskrats have spurned and there are sixty-two million pigs in proper domestication in North America.
Photo Credit: Andras Covacs/unsplash