When were you born?
I am uninterested in anything else.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Bus
Every shining creek & pond in Jersey; the grass & trees of northeast somewhere; and seeing once a pickup truck in a field off the highway.
Want is to be moving on highway dreaming of summertime, remembering to be alive, remembering that shining creek was everything I needed and now it's gone.
I could go on like this forever.
I'm getting good at delighting myself.
I want to be penetrable darkness. I want to be an underwater where you can't see or breathe. A death facing the light tenderly joining & touching. A light looking on a dark death. A thick sweet and wet earth, where we could feel silent black force of bloom -- struggle & yielding of roots in dirt.
Want is to be moving on highway dreaming of summertime, remembering to be alive, remembering that shining creek was everything I needed and now it's gone.
I could go on like this forever.
I'm getting good at delighting myself.
I want to be penetrable darkness. I want to be an underwater where you can't see or breathe. A death facing the light tenderly joining & touching. A light looking on a dark death. A thick sweet and wet earth, where we could feel silent black force of bloom -- struggle & yielding of roots in dirt.
Easter Weekend Poisoning
Aspiring to a yeast infection, I eat five oranges a day. In addition, I am full of tap water & have been sitting in front of microwaves.
The Easter miracle this year was discovering my favorite type of frozen waffle in Grandma's freezer.
When I joyfully poisoned myself in Queens, it was on substances appearing as food, tasting like food--
cheesed spinach,
sugared squash,
whipped potatoes,
oiled vegetables.
Because there was no way to know what was in them, I didn't ask.
With eyes wide open, I took bite. Then took nother bite.
I happily poisoned myself, but was surprised when I went back for seconds.
Easter cake, I said, was the end of Easter Weekend Disgusting.
And so far it's true, except for the grapes, which I will never count.
The Easter miracle this year was discovering my favorite type of frozen waffle in Grandma's freezer.
When I joyfully poisoned myself in Queens, it was on substances appearing as food, tasting like food--
cheesed spinach,
sugared squash,
whipped potatoes,
oiled vegetables.
Because there was no way to know what was in them, I didn't ask.
With eyes wide open, I took bite. Then took nother bite.
I happily poisoned myself, but was surprised when I went back for seconds.
Easter cake, I said, was the end of Easter Weekend Disgusting.
And so far it's true, except for the grapes, which I will never count.
April 9, 2009
New York doesn't need me to pay attention to it.
New York doesn't need me to write any kind of poem about it.
New York doesn't need me to write any kind of poem about it.
Last Week
There is some necessity in sweetening. And is it only because of Cancer in the second house? Or Venus in the second house? Or even Jupiter in the second house?
It doesn't matter. Because in this earthly sphere/abundant world, there are myriad ways to sweeten. All (not all) thick, lovely bestowing upon the tooth, the tongue, the belly, the base of the brain a pervading experience of perfection. Perfection feels like peace.
Perfection, then, is maple syrup.
Tree milk.
Perfection, then, is honey.
Bee milk.
Perfection, then, is molasses.
Cane milk.
Do you remember how sweet was your mother's breast? Unlikely, because there was no bitter world to compare it to.
Perfection, then, is milk.
Human milk.
Breast milk.
It would dribble down your chin as eyes rolled into back of head. Milk drunk.
Your mother would easily forget important details, names and dates, how to spell. She was drunk too. You were here lover and beloved.
That breast was the whole sweet world and you drank & drank.
O maple syrup! Manifest original sweet world.
O honey! Manifest sweet world!
O sugar! Rot me from the inside for a moment of sweet loving to fill me up. I will give you myself completely.
O cow milk, who we steal out of baby beasts' mouths to stuff into our own in attempt to drink ourselves back to Eden! O cow milk! for the sake of the calves we cuckold, fill our mouths, our spines, our brains with some original lovely sweetness, so that baby cow bellies and their experience of sweet whole world not go empty in vain.
O mama mama mama, your milk so long ago dried up, don't forget to hold me hold me that I might never leave that perfect world in orbit round your breasts.
It doesn't matter. Because in this earthly sphere/abundant world, there are myriad ways to sweeten. All (not all) thick, lovely bestowing upon the tooth, the tongue, the belly, the base of the brain a pervading experience of perfection. Perfection feels like peace.
Perfection, then, is maple syrup.
Tree milk.
Perfection, then, is honey.
Bee milk.
Perfection, then, is molasses.
Cane milk.
Do you remember how sweet was your mother's breast? Unlikely, because there was no bitter world to compare it to.
Perfection, then, is milk.
Human milk.
Breast milk.
It would dribble down your chin as eyes rolled into back of head. Milk drunk.
Your mother would easily forget important details, names and dates, how to spell. She was drunk too. You were here lover and beloved.
That breast was the whole sweet world and you drank & drank.
O maple syrup! Manifest original sweet world.
O honey! Manifest sweet world!
O sugar! Rot me from the inside for a moment of sweet loving to fill me up. I will give you myself completely.
O cow milk, who we steal out of baby beasts' mouths to stuff into our own in attempt to drink ourselves back to Eden! O cow milk! for the sake of the calves we cuckold, fill our mouths, our spines, our brains with some original lovely sweetness, so that baby cow bellies and their experience of sweet whole world not go empty in vain.
O mama mama mama, your milk so long ago dried up, don't forget to hold me hold me that I might never leave that perfect world in orbit round your breasts.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
April 2, 2009
Even though I sometimes think I should, I have never minded folding up the stroller and bringing it inside after taking the baby for a walk. And Eventhough I think I shouldn't, I always mind when the baby doesn't go to sleep for as long as I want him to.
These words are filthy liars, because every word is a promise and no promise can be kept. It is disgusting. All these filthy words and these disgusting promises. Sometimes I want to throw up.
These words are filthy liars, because every word is a promise and no promise can be kept. It is disgusting. All these filthy words and these disgusting promises. Sometimes I want to throw up.
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