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SailorI set out to test the watersand push my limits,but the depths were hungry,and the limits fluid,far too close to shore.All the complexities,the terror and the pain,flooded the brain,drowning the factthat happiness can only risefrom deep within.It is your own damn jobto learn how to swim.
The simple endSo it seems thatas the years go bylike autumn leavesin snaking rivers,the sense of distanceis swallowed by the sea.So it seems thatthere are no perfect circles,only jagged linesfolding on themselves.So it seems thata human bodyis simply matterlessfrom violent beginningto the simple sweetnessof the end.
SupermassiveReality never bendsto human expectation,it simply does its thingand becomes the consequences.At times it blossoms perfeclyin the gardens of our creation,but when it dies and rots away,we may have been the poison.No result is guaranteed,even when thoroughly tested,but life is all but barrenwithout the seed of risk.And in the end,strange beauty growsfrom feeling thingsbig enough to break you.
SuprasolarWe call it the Local Group,this, our neighborhood of galaxies,in which only a single staramong billionsis even remotely reachable.And we tell ourselvesto dream big.That hard workwill get us there.But on the cosmic scaleour collective capacityis nothing.For every star in the Milky Way,all four hundred billion or more,there is a galaxy.Even the Local Groupis nothing.Yet since dreams are orbitalwe hold our breath to reach them.And when we perish in the vacuumthe stars still burneverything that matters.
Forest fireWe were snaking up the I-84through Deadman Passin the Blue Mountainsof northeastern Oregon,where stories write themselves.The trees are evergreen, you said,defiant spruce and pine and firprotruding from dirt and rocks,exclamation pointsfollowing the death of everything else.I recall a membrane of cloudsat the apex, a reminder of bordersthat should never have been crossed,as overanalyzed by a tired mind.It may or may not have been there.We penetrated the veil,the first Chevyto sputter onto the Moon,monochrome and lifeless,under a radiant crystal sky.The fire had ravagedthe land to the boneleaving us trappedin the rib cage of the world.Something else descendedinto the desert below,but it was no longer us.
AwokenFor years I slept with open eyesand fibrous dreams, cut into shapesso real to the touch.It took a shock to wake me upand shed my baby skin.The cold is raw now,honest and lethalto a naked body,freezing wordssolid in the throat.Light once imaginedshines no more.Love once whisperednow rings hollowamong the echoesof the dusk.
Why the ostrich bleedsI have oversharedenough.
StarpulseTen foldsof singularityaround and aroundthat lucid pain& sing acrossthe great dividelike a pulsar,a throbbing star.Let them hear youlong after you fallthrough your heart-holeinto the never/ever& keep them wonderingwhy.
Visitor's guideIn small-town Americathat biker dude at the local Circle Kwill greet you every time,by name, even, after a while,and he will ask you if you're OK.This is not an actual question,but that is all right.In small-town Americayou should not ride your bikewhile wearing a shoulder bag,hanging like a koala bear.A school bus will eventually pass by,the kids will laugh their asses off,nice Mormon bros will call you "nice" and "bro",and a '74 Chevy will nudge you into a ditch,endangered, like a koala bear.In small-town Americayou should not just turn left for the hell of itif you don't want to see a giant old manstraddling a John Deere, wearing nothingbut nearly swallowed shorts,massive gold-rimmed Aviatorsand a double-barreled shotgun.You should never ever wonder,where he keeps his extra shells.Small-town America.I was a stranger,but you spoke to me,and I wish I had knownhow to actually answer.
On self-loveMaybe whoshe really loves,is the nameof the boyshe thinks of,while she linesher chatoyant eyeswith charcoalmaybe the nameshe really needs to think of,is her own.
If you can't sleepIf you can't sleepit's harder than your nighmaresor better than your dream.
Michaelasometimes, you meet people who are stormsin bottles, who are ships cast away on rockycoastlines, contained in a mason jar. sometimesyou meet volcanoes in human skin, earthquakeswith a laugh that sounds like skipping rockson summer colored lakes. sometimes, you meetpeople who are whirlwinds wrapped up in muscle and bone,who are more miracle than mistake.i think about that a lot when i look at her.to be fair, she is nothing more than me and youbut she has a hurricane brewing in her eyesand dandelions growing through the cracksin her sidewalks and i think that’s wondrousenough.i know our lungs are the same—on mondaysand thursdays, we both find it hard to keepbreathing and sometimes if i listen hard enoughi think i can hear the storms battering her shoreline,but you could never tell with the way she smiles.don’t tell her, but she smiles like the sun.she smiles crooked, like baby teeth and moralsand the first time you try to hang up a sign.god, she sm
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
Insanity needs companyand now I’m stuck here,pondering,how the walls becamea veiny sight-(could the cause be me calling outyour namein the middle of the night?)and alone I stand here,wondering,how my feet gotnailed upon this floor-(do you hold my ankleslike an anchordoes the shore?)and I know it’s been thirteen yearssince you were here at all,according to the hash markscarved uponthe wooden wallbut I can’tlet goof our memories,that hauntme everydayso for now,I’ll let the doc declare: Insanity needs company.
Roses and CoffeeMasarm takes his coffee blacklike the collar of his favourite shirtand the shadow of childhood;Sally tempers the tartness of tastewith salt and sugar-crustedpetals of roses in her cup.When he's angry, Masarmburns fiercely, a broodingthat bites only himself, and Sally,when she's angry, spitsacid and flings platesthat shatter over his head.Still, somehow it's always Masarmwho sends flowers; Masarmwho swallows down the bitterness.
WiccaWe are Wicca,We are not evil.We are hunted and burned by the church,Because we are different,Not in appearance,But in our beliefs.Our ways are different,Our minds are too,And because we dont follow one god blindly,We are burnt alive,Burnt for something we didnt do.They called us heretics,Witches and whores.Burnt at the stake for no faith in their lord.They call us evil when they burn us alive.They drown our children to see if they were right,If our children sink,Then they were good,But if they were to rise,To death is where they go.The church is our enemy,From no fault of our own.They hate our gods and goddesses,Because our gods are not their own.
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
Innocence in the fleshI'm six-scatter-brainilysketchinga stick figureof myself,I seek the"skin colored" pencil,to shade in mypeach fleshI'm thirteen-Ditzilydoodlinga classmatessilhouette,an epiphany,a realization:different skin,people posess
AsylumRing sparkround the greycorridors -shock start;are the patientsstill in cells?