In love with the vocal on a mix tape
from 1989: You’re here with me, but soon
you will be gone…Desperate for concrete rhythm, we grabbed the bucket. And
you. In love with modern moonlight. Compassion
is better than a diamond—it’s a vaster rainbow jewel. Take the pain, but the
joy, too, it’s all light. It’s all right. Surrender to compression of
compassion—expaaansea!
This degree: it’s just something for the
animals to chew on.
Infants talk to animals differently than
they talk to people. Noise is. All the drugs in my heart. Diverse heart. Not
just the sentimental clinging, but expanse of azure midnight, the dissolving
moonlight, the cutting black trees. And this: a mouth in pillow forever
screaming, and this: stupid white wine afternoons. Diverse heart. Radiant.
Murder
pissing on the monitor, and Juniper wearing long sleeves in summer. The
babies—that is, you, me, and the earth under our foundations, basements carved
into earth, our earth, and all slugs and flying things, and my baby and my
fishy 17-year-old cat, are each spirals, each as sacred as a conch, a spark
spit out in golden time, formed by space-time, but living as a full spiral within
star-spiral-la all the same.
And there is that time of day, when the
sun hits the base of the fractured mirror lamp just right, and little diamonds fleck on
the living room walls, ceiling. My baby and I watch the manifestation. And
later, it vanishes. We don’t know, but then we look up. The way the sun hits
these walls with changing character through the spiraling seasons.
Come see the frog-lit human experience… Change
of weather brings all the former lives crashing down around us like empty boxes
from the last move.
When I was four, in 1982, my mother fell
in love with the book William Blake’s
Inn, by Nancy Willard, but we couldn’t afford it, so she borrowed it from
the library, transcribed it, and read it to us.
Who cares about the Ramones, what about
the river of hawks?
Sex is like voice. Is it clear. Is it unblocked,
unstuck. Un-struck sound. Singular and universe. (Potential to blue.)
I dream-creep through hidden floors in
rich people’s homes seeking secret stairs to the beach. At shows. Some people
want to look like line drawings. Aw, there’s garbage everywhere!
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