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Posts Tagged ‘morning’

This become a dead-space yet? I live in a house without internet. I’m writing on paper. [that’s the update.]

Swannanoa, sweet SwannaNowhere, Iam Here. I live in a small house sweltering in sweaty grasses.

I live

in some small house

completed now with seven other children and a chorus of flies:

their teensy iridescence crashing together continuously

making music

I’ve grown used to

even when it falls on the skin of my shoulders

and rouses me

in morning.

When I get up, I move lengthwise

making my muscles unkink and grow slender. I flick my toes.

When I walk out into the world after asleep,

my naked skin greets the air. I reach down and notice my pubic hair’s grown coarse

in its forest of thickness

I’ve allowed to flow free for such time now. Never again to disband it

without incredibly good reason.

Fig’s in the living room, positioned somewhere ocean-wise, on our giant rug of the globe.

he covers world in art

collage-fixins and papers strewn allover

his addiction. His schizophrenia

and the reduction of his pills

forcing him to seek refuge

in all these genitalia

he constantly creates.

skeleton-penis-flaming vagina. “Everything goes back to birth,”

he’s wise so beyond,          that it surprises me when he clings to my words

until I realize I must be careful what I say

around a searching soul so willing to change.

Fig, you’re okay. And I love to get high with you

off mullen, mugwort, herbs,

wrapped like a delicacy

inhaled

and expelled innocence laughter.

The medicines I’ve got to take to get myself to sleep

in that hot smelly room of human

on all nights i could tear in for

hours.

The small house is white, and it’s really false as a house afterall.

Nothing but some crude shelter,

outside posing as in.

It sounds like music

and feels as restless as creative youth.

and outside, which is inside, is always singing. It’s even in our skin,

raised little red bumps

we can’t help but itch until they bleed.

I take a pen to them,

making stars,

galactic scenes,

connecting sense out of chaos;

the creatures I killed so swift with the flick of my hand,

my own blood smearing there, along with that of how many others? It’s a deep orange pekoe

resting in a streak, residual lastings for as long as my next shower,

which occurs maybe in ten days or so.

Showering is a big event in small house. and Clothes can’t contain

the freedom we feel

in a first small house, it’s loft full of arts, words, crushed cans and stolen go(o)d(lines)s.

-0

Emma. has hair like a marigold

and the body of a muse,

renaissance painting.

Her ‘grandpa-ass’ like porcelain gel, speckled. flatly swishing against her frocks, all flowered

she is covered in flowers.

Emma’s like soil, bathed in flowers,

the intricacies of the root systems finding their coils and clings

in ways impossible to predict.

flowers grow from her demure smile

and the way she knows herself but doesn’t know she knows herself

dousing in wine                (“get me the burgundy”) and seeing four faces.

Her skin sprouts faery wings

and smatters in stars

when it’s courageous enough to face the sun.

Emma. A drawn-by, strung-out tangle of golding copper,

lusting for melancholic passion and learning to pick on through

pluck on by

her breathy voice

is as endearing

as the red little pimples in her crack

and the way her teeth line up

to show off the piercing just topping her chin.

A cherry

on her icing (for she’s a cupcake garden, after all.

she;ll go soon. And be gone. And the small house willn’t be similar.

longer.

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Coming to consciousness at precisely noon and it being difficult to register:

Oh, am I awake now? Am I waking on my own accord?

The woozy obliviousness being partly too strong for remaining one-half inside my dreams, which were pertinent to remember I know.

I should have written last night

as instead there I lay beckoning sleep with all of these follies and friendly frenzy flicking, arcing across the inner brow –

float-swimming as I used to do as a child, making rounds in my neighbor’s above ground pool

a tiny fishhumantank that made me frustrated and bored.                                     my mind.

Coming to wake this morning slowly within my bed. The dryness of our place’s heat having fondled my sinuses for hours

The obvious pregnancy of snow waiting outside my third floor window.

An understandable threatening.

Something everybody’s waiting on and all sense

We quietly brace and release a sigh of awe as the first flakes fall, gentle

momentary reassurance and we trust in the beauty of that

before steeling against it and looking for ways it must ruin our day.

and we begin to trudge

When it is cold, Virginia, and the freeze whips your face, do you stand there to allow it? Nay, you move more briskly, increasing the pain and searching for shelter

Perhaps it is better to stand and grow accustomed to the cold so that you no longer need to escape it.

Depends on what the cold is standing in for, guess.

No. Always (at that moment) you should be letting the cold move in and through you, rather than about you. Accepting and embracing the cold and earning some of its power: enough that it can’t touch you any longer because its become a part of you. A requirement of feeling colder than most humans have ever felt in their life before accepting this.

Then you will never have to mind or fear being cold again.

You can just be.

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