tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14044744343165839382024-03-07T21:01:08.028-06:00Rainbow ParcelLocated in Parcel Locker #9*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-78773036647283132132014-05-17T00:22:00.002-05:002014-05-17T00:22:32.330-05:00IntestineThey're still hanging from you, weighing you down. Keeping you anchored<br />
<br />
Keeping you from rising, light, free, finally free<br />
<br />
Pulling from inside<br />
<br />
It's up to you to pull the rest of them out*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-88436914791847131682014-04-12T09:30:00.002-05:002014-04-12T09:30:53.824-05:00Pre/PostRipping between the seams<br />
<br />
It hurts, it hurts<br />
<br />
It's too late, insides spilling<br />
<br />
Are already festering, infectious<br />
<br />
Pulling the ropes of intestines<br />
<br />
Stomach, kidneys, heart<br />
<br />
Green with mold<br />
<br />
Into the dirt<br />
<br />
Only the black lungs remain<br />
<br />
Shrunken and shuddering to breathe*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-32223415351977050132013-09-01T23:21:00.003-05:002013-09-01T23:21:51.407-05:00Slow DownAn hourglass filled with smoke<br />
<br />
Beats spaced farther apart<br />
<br />
Lukewarm, still<br />
<br />
A reverie from nothing at all<br />
<br />
Slow, it's all slowing down<br />
<br />
A piece, you found a piece<br />
<br />
As blood cooled in your veins<br />
<br />
You lay, and you dream*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-84297988633145552512013-05-25T00:40:00.002-05:002013-05-25T00:40:36.575-05:00IsFor months, for as long as you have been conscious, the gulls descend to eat you. Open to the sky, you watch them root and pull and swarm and swallow. You understand why they do it. It's only natural. But you hate them.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-12801058328402170562013-05-05T13:25:00.000-05:002013-05-05T13:25:06.449-05:00CompressionSucking air through a pinhole from inside a sealed jar*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-72721915554521560592012-10-25T22:26:00.000-05:002012-10-25T22:26:28.267-05:00The SwellsIt's high tide as they leave you on the beach. Air and sand scrape your muscles, ribs, heart. The smell of salt as ocean waves lap against you. You tremble. The aching reminds you that you're breathing.<br />
<br />
It's a feeling you can never forget, and will always cherish.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-80530301023033220312012-10-22T01:17:00.002-05:002012-10-22T01:17:45.564-05:00DiagnosisAs you crack like an egg in front of them, they seize your body, prying the pieces apart with long silver tools.<br />
<br />
Like surgeons they tease apart every fiber, every sliver of fat, every thread of your nerves. They see your raw, bleeding body, naked in the light. The air shocks your senses, and you lay gasping as they work.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-12720297355465383902012-10-15T15:58:00.001-05:002012-10-15T15:58:27.338-05:00O OAll of the hairline cracks veining your china body. Hissing as sand trickled through, sprinkling a trail behind you. All of the hairline cracks, forming a code. A code everyone could read.<br />
<br />
Surrounded by eyes darting between you and the trail of sand. Back and forth, holes that gaped as their fibers contracted.<br />
<br />
All of the hairline cracks finally connected across your face. Shards crashing, sand sparkling under the fluorescent light. Everyone heard, eyes darting, everyone saw. Surrounded by eyes, surrounded by light.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-59405973628832177452012-02-04T23:54:00.003-06:002012-02-05T00:18:11.067-06:00MarionetteWinter came, and you fell asleep.<div><br /></div><div>As the snow fell, you slept and were buried in the drifts. When the white sun glowed, the snow crawled into the ocean, and you lay there, frozen in the cold. At last, you crack open your eyes, fragmenting the ice over your lids. You stir. Your skin frozen, clear porcelain and smooth. You lay there for months, cracking your chest to breathe.</div><div><br /></div><div>The air laces your lungs with frost. From where you lay, you can see thick grooves in the beach--there were boats here. While you were asleep.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Where are you?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>You breathe. Your ball-jointed limbs jerk, unfamiliar with their stiff movements. The stem of your stump hardened, with dots of white bone where the buds used to be. You breathe, and slowly you rise.</div><div><br /></div><div>Letters, memories of voices as you slept below the snow. <i>Where are you?</i> they asked. Voices lost in the rolling sea. For a moment you falter, sinking with your elbows in the sand, your china head heavy. It hurts, but you rise, and trembling under the weight of gravity you totter to your feet.</div><div><br /></div><div>There. A boat on the horizon. So far away but clearly heading in your direction. Blinking, ice falls from your face and facets in the light.</div>*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-54157841761320278502011-10-16T01:00:00.001-05:002011-10-16T01:02:55.033-05:00Breathing SmokeThere are boats in the distance. Small ones, barely visible in the starlight. They have no idea you're there.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-22200164957468957952011-09-30T19:48:00.003-05:002011-09-30T19:58:40.574-05:00Anew, Once MoreThere was a flood. That, you remember. A flood that wiped everything away--you didn't realize how little was left until you had finally pulled yourself up to walk, to find something, somewhere. You remember the dull, aching pain of your stump dotting the trail you walked with red specks. That's how you knew there was nothing. Just a flat land, surrounded by the glassy field of water. An island you wore down with footsteps, walking around and around.<div><br /></div><div>As the sun pulled itself out of the waves and filled the sky with white, things began making sense again. It was a long process but your stump was closing, germinating and sweetly growing into a soft stem. You think you can see it budding.</div><div><br /></div><div>You dip your feet into the water, feeling the wind inflate your lungs to pink.</div>*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-74330268163754188792011-06-14T16:02:00.003-05:002011-06-14T16:20:55.991-05:00T ESpiderweb cracks run through the pane glass window. It's aching from the pressure of the rainwater that's crept nearly to the top of the window frame. It's waiting by the window, watching you as you study the cracks. Your heart is racing but you touch your finger against the glass.<br /><br />It didn't even make a sound.<br /><br />You're plunged into deafness as the rainwater pulls you under and everything is swirling around you. Glass, pieces of furniture, books--they all scrape your vision as you struggle to find something, anything to hold onto. You catch the sound of a heaving groan, like something being crushed.<br /><br />The rainwater spits you out, and you crumble into a heap. A searing pain climbs up your arm but when you grope for it you realize it's no longer there. You sit, clutching the stump, waiting for your head to stop swimming. When you look, there's nothing. The underground is gone. It is gone. You can see nothing else.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-86004035361180888972011-05-22T01:08:00.003-05:002011-05-22T01:18:44.086-05:00Drift and SwellIt's quiet. You lift the plastic blinds, squinting through the glass as you hear the rain fall. It starts and stops with the thunder that only sounds when you're asleep, dead to the world. The water rises slowly; you can see it crawling up the building, toward the window. You smile; it's waiting by the window and you know it would smile if it could. This is the closest you've ever stood near it.<br /><br />Building, building, building. The end of the world, the crush of fated chaos. Sound and fury and then nothing. It's going to be so hard but you understand why; that's why you're going to go prepared. You lean your forehead against the window, feeling the coolness of the glass against your skin. Beautiful chaos, sucked into order.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-48609362816450973642011-03-20T00:43:00.002-05:002011-03-20T00:50:36.877-05:00The HoseBreathe into the hose, you'll feel better.<br /><br />Things are changing but not in the way you expected--instead of changing in front of you they're changing under your skin and you can feel the little bits and pieces shifting. You need to pull some of it out into the open and you know it.<br /><br />He's there but not always whenever you want him there. Just one hour ago you almost got what you wanted but it wasn't exactly. Someone tried to stick his hand in your brain and you smiled and pretended that he did. He got what he wanted and you're sucking on a hose, filling up with smoke.<br /><br />It's sitting near the window, watching you as you breathe out static. You pretend it's not there; you're too ashamed.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-72217233171477924722011-01-31T23:06:00.004-06:002011-01-31T23:12:59.153-06:00PrognosisIt's becoming clearer.<br /><br />You can feel it speeding up, picking up under your feet as you walk, as you stumble to keep up. It's coming, it's coming, it's coming and it will be clear to you, you can feel it--the thought makes sparks go off in your stomach. Faster the messages are coming to you and with such direct clarity it surprises you.<br /><br />Cut it off. Cut everything off, all of the excess. You're screaming to break out, you're so close. Cut everything off and split away until you're left with nothing but yourself. It's all getting in the way, you know it. It's going to happen soon. Pull the trigger, let it go. Calm, wholeness will follow when everything settles.<br /><br />You can't let this pass you by.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-81272057062545888552011-01-12T23:44:00.003-06:002011-01-12T23:53:24.111-06:00A ConnectionYou never invited it in--you never do--but here it is in the underground. It comes with the compulsions and sits near the window, waiting patiently like it's waiting for you to respond somehow. You can feel it there and you know it is expecting something from you but not necessarily any time soon. It knows you'll know when the time comes.<br /><br />When you first saw it there in the corner it surprised you, and then when it kept coming back it began to scare you. Why is it there? What are you supposed to know? How are you supposed to learn? When will you understand? The more often it comes the more you know that you'll know sooner. Seeing it there has become comforting, expected. Much better than what was done.<br /><br />Someday you'll know why. You don't now, but that's okay. It's there, and its patience is soothing.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-77865976732050015342011-01-05T00:40:00.003-06:002011-01-05T00:49:12.694-06:00MisfortuneIt wasn't supposed to be but it was. To you it wasn't supposed to be and shouldn't have been but when has reality ever listened to anyone? Turns out it was and it wasn't because of something you did but rather something you didn't do. There's a strange sort of irony to the fact that you had just recently heard about the virtues of doing by not doing and here was a perfect example of doing by not doing lead to something done that really shouldn't have. You do have to remind yourself that your not doing was not the cause of the doing but doing could have stopped the doing from being done. But then you remind yourself that your not doing wasn't really a conscious doing on your part in the first place. Now it's like someone took one of those single hole-punch things and punched some skin off of you--there's no way that will close up like nothing happened.<br /><br />So now you have to live with this weird hole punched into you and go throughout your day in hopes that no one notices because if they did what the hell would you say? It's not like they'd believe the real story--the hole punch thing. The problem is even if no one knows it's there because you do such an amazing job of pretending it's not there you still know it's there and it's itchy. It's so itchy you have to scratch it but then it gets bigger and skin flakes are getting everywhere. For some reason you can't stop scratching it.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-40618446687279402802010-11-17T23:20:00.003-06:002010-11-17T23:34:33.042-06:00Four Minutes Nineteen SecondsSeven times per day<br /><br />Like a deaf-mute learning to speak<br /><br />Trying desperately to be understood*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-36575594961205961422010-09-25T19:37:00.002-05:002010-09-25T19:43:53.246-05:00It's All About TechniqueGoing in, the overly-sweet syrup sticks to your throat, clinging to every surface as it climbs down. Going out, static-textured smoke that smells like medicine seeps from your mouth and buzzes in your head. It blankets you, calms you down. Makes you think. Each breath like the beginning of some scripted meditation, some zen-like policy. Your brain settles but stays awake. You let the drawings of hands and eyes drift by, relieved that the messages are slow and creeping. Sound files clipping--they should be alarming but instead they feel natural. It all feels natural. You let yourself sink through the floor and into all the various stimuli, and you experience.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-22688542144678128822010-08-28T02:05:00.004-05:002010-08-28T02:16:49.303-05:00SiphonophoraeThe nerve fires and has been firing over and over again like someone pushing a button in the back of your head--it fires over and over and compulsions are flooding from everywhere and while it scares the hell out of you you also know it can only bring you closer to perfection. Isn't that what compulsions are for, anyway? To remind you to do things that make you feel more complete?<div><br /></div><div>Is there a connection? A way to become more whole? Something like the phrase "being closer to God?" It would be nice if the firing nerves could speak but then maybe that would be too simple and perhaps more than a little strange. There are compulsions to do simple things that should be leading to more complex ideas and revelations but somehow there's still a disconnect and you can't for the hell of it figure out what. Someday the firing will become clearer and in the meantime you can continue listening to the simple compulsions until something more concrete comes out of it. Then you might be getting somewhere.</div>*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-30972930182343001292010-05-23T01:25:00.003-05:002010-05-23T01:37:03.249-05:00JunctionWhere is it all going?<div><br /></div><div>It's silent in the underground, and yellow from the floor lamp with the bent neck--the one not quite broken enough to replace--and there should be noises outside but there aren't. It's black and gold outside from street lamps that could possibly be bent but-not-quite-broken-enough but you've never been close enough to one to really tell. They are very high up.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's silent and there are so many words running across your eyes and you feel like there is something more. Whenever you feel compelled to let your fingers leak you know there is something more but never in your damn life have you known what it was. You wonder if you sit here in the yellow-and-black would the something more become something here. But then you think that would be an odd thing to see.</div><div><br /></div><div>The purpley bugs that did such a good job of leaving you alone for months are back but shrunken, and they climb the walls tentatively, knowing you are now the one who was here first. It doesn't matter to you or them anyway. It isn't long until they're a tangled mess of legs between the whitewash and paper napkin.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lines are being drawn and will be connected soon, you know. It's time to make a choice about when they connect even if it's far down the line. You sit and study the plastic slats of the blinds and hope that time comes soon.</div>*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-831922368381865642010-03-22T18:14:00.002-05:002010-03-22T18:22:13.122-05:00Carousel SpinningThe sky runs clear for the first time in months, though the haze didn't disappear; it sucked right into your head and now everything seems hazy, even gravity. You float while you're grounded and dream while you're awake and no matter how much sleep you sleep in the day and nights you spend staring at the ceiling you always find yourself in that haze. You wonder how big your pupils look.<div><br /></div><div>It's tough to keep your balance when clouds are stuffing themselves into your head and the days are flying under your feet like winding film but somehow you seem to be making do. It's not like how you expected but it's working, and maybe sometime in the next few months you'll have a moment to look over your shoulder and make sure everything's accounted for. But for now there's too much haze to even try looking behind you because you know you'll just get dizzy and fall over and then what will get done? Nothing because you're too busy being worthless when you should have been looking forward. You don't know how long the haze is going to stay in your brain but you resign yourself to the fact that it's not leaving and things still need to get done. You just hope you don't miss something on the way there.</div>*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-13331878430420625732010-02-03T19:48:00.003-06:002010-02-03T19:51:58.315-06:00An Ode to FleshHe smiles with full lips and heavy-lid eyes, and the air crystallizes around you. It's cold and you both can feel it but it's not cutting, even as you walk against the wind and steel is groaning over your heads.*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-70743587721508454322010-01-10T02:56:00.000-06:002010-01-10T03:03:04.947-06:00UnheedYour pupils are dilating, watching the paint drip. You expect the cold snaking through the windowpanes to freeze the drips, but they continue meandering down the wall in front of you. Wandering away from your time zone left you feeling disoriented but somehow it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Ochre is sliding down the walls, one arm at a time. Along with it crimson, prussian blue. You're not sure what you did with your limbs.<div><br /></div><div>The paint crawls into your eyes.</div>*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1404474434316583938.post-27897901659556371342009-12-19T00:46:00.000-06:002009-12-19T00:50:31.273-06:00Being Spoken For.The volume turns up, and you're a million miles away from home. You knew you were, and you've been so for a while, but you didn't realize how far away you were until this night when the blood was pumping in both sides of your neck and the wind is blowing loud and the volume just keeps turning up. The sound is in another language, but it's a familiar pattern, so you pretend not to pay attention because it's the polite thing to do, right? Even though you're being spoken for.<div><br /></div><div>Somewhere a million miles away is the underground where you can just tell the void has started shrinking, even though you're not there. It's closing up and you imagine how much easier it will be to get to the bathroom. There's paste all over the ground there where there's oil here.</div><div><br /></div><div>The volume keeps turning up, so you decide to lay back and listen to your own blood. It has a nicer rhythm, anyway.</div>*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00613557212175436399noreply@blogger.com0