Hot in the Vein

My stomach shifts in my midsection and I cannot tell if it is dread or disease as I stare at the online application page for a new credit card. Dread. I close the browser. I will not go there, yet, but fucking close; the distant walls are ever changing.



Paper, pencils

Collect cobwebs.

Shearing time

Peals waken

Rending

Moments ripen

Split

Join anew

Eating Crow

Well if I was a carnivore, crow would be the last thing I would eat because those highly intelligent birds would stalk me all over the city and my life would spiral out of control.

That being said I am making a horizontal list right here (colon) rip every single thing out of my room and then put it back in a nice way (semi-colon) keep it all together (semi-colon) keep waking up before six for the rest of my life (semi-colon) find something that makes sense of all of this confusion (semi-colon) learn how to identify the questions before trying to answer it.

Living life through a fractured lense (and yes, I checked, it is okay to have an e on lens, it's better that way, for me, more clear and really what else matters?) takes a toll. I am looking forward to being able to focus and direct my energy toward a specific target, in the mean time, I hope to find ways to express how truly grateful I am for this human experience. It seems that more wildly unpredictable it becomes, the more the steel fibers in my heart soften, the deeper the sorrow the greater the joy. When I find a way to describe that everyday, I will be getting closer to asking the right questions

June is more than summer

This tide is momentous and perhaps at some point the high will match this low. As this year progresses, I learn that there is no way of knowing or holding onto water or sand, I work to flow out and disperse into the greater waters of the ocean. I fantasize about floods, their hunger for low laying lands and trailers. Floods are things of beauty which cannot be suppressed. Fire, in its consumption of all things which leaves only charcoal ash soot, shoots fear to my bones. Fire is individual, a flood is bad luck and low lands.

So this tide that carries me, I drift on it.

I lose my second job of the year, the third of my life, this is not a year for having jobs if you are me and I am, so I don't have jobs. Again, fine, and better still, because the sucking of marrow from the inside of my bones to deliver it into the waiting maws of man ends.

So catch my breath, find a minute, breath deeply, and wonder about all of this.

standing in the dark

Every few months my sleep health goes to hell and my days turn into endless streams of lost moments and missed opportunities. I wake drenched in sweat, legs trapped in my sheets having forgotten my name and hoping that the stranger in the bed next to me doesn't mind my nakedness. Heart in my throat, my eyes search the dark room for clues, until slowly I come back into my body which has been sleeping in the same bed next to the same stranger for years.

I push pull my mind now. I heard a quote from a famous man whom I will not attribute as I have no desire to fact check and the last time I failed to fact checked I got checked publicly for not doing my research: "When your dreams turn to dust it is time to vacuum."

It is father's day. I love you.

unwashed vs prewash*td

Time in all its glory follows the sun. It is no small act of truth that time in all of its implications is uniquely personal. My time is marvelously slow and as minutes linger under the beading rim of a glass, I know my skin over bones hides more than it reveals.

There exist one pair of cut-off levi's, faded, almost white, loose around the pockets and thighs; one black tshirt with printing, including, and, yet not limited to the search for Carmen San Diego, a graphic, and a streak of turquoise oil paint; one gray graphic tshirt which can never be washed, a sliver ghost to hang smock like over my torso; one pink and yellow tie-dye, worn down to sheer threads: That is love.

Time is in those clothes. Their folds hold the soft scent summers past, long warm nights that dipped into the mind of a tomorrow that has never unfolded. These shirts are crickets and roller skates and speed and the rolling years, years of ambiguity, there is moon in the fibers and sun too, and when I wash them all of that gets a little further from my fingers and my eyes see less and heaven knows I remember much less than I hoped.