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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.
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.
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhymeall the time?You don't need to do it,that's perfectly fine.You think it's so coolAnd it leaves poems gleaming,But it desecrates flowAnd can ruin the meaning.It's so bad to rhythm,It's like a bad dayYou wonder why you're notSleeping it away.You think it's the rootOf your writing's salvation,But we all will hate you,All parts of the nation.You think it sounds niceBut you don't even knowHow ruined the sound isHow badly it 'goes'.So the irony's over,Your poems can mend,I'll stop myself here,Before you meetYour end.
advice.i.you can't erase melike an incorrect answer.I have started to learnthat being wrong is nectar,taste it like honeyat the back of your throat,embrace it the wayyour spine would embrace your mattress after a long, tiring day.you cannot rub it away;this is our natural tattoo.engrave it on your skin,remind yourselfthat the path you walk is forever under construction.the important thingis that we keep building.ii.we have an instinct to fight.not long agoI may have compared humansto intricate things like roses,but now I thinkwe are stronger than that.call us white blood cells.we do not rest.our battles are internal and infinite,and our conquests arealways victorious.the beast that defeats usis the final one,and we will not go downwithout leaving our opponentbruised.iii.you couldscrape your kneeswith the shards of your broken heart.at times you may feel like you want to.but hearts are not made of glass,and no poetic metaphorwill make i
You said you'd burn bridges for meI broke my bonesinto sticksand stones-let thempile fora firein the endas I burned,the only answerI yearned:was it youwho litthe match?
9:58 amI saw you smokingin front of the churchon Sunday9:58 am,and I don't knowwhether servicewas over,or yet to begina milky hazefloating into thea i r,and with eachdiaphanous puff,I saw angel wingsf l y i n gtoward the heaven aboveand I only wonderedif you hoped Godcould save you fromyour addiction,or from whateverthe reasonyou started smokingwas.
Our generationcigarette smokeandalcoholthe fumesembeddingin the wallcocaine linesin bathroomstalls:our generation,we have it allmisguided teens,with dying dreams(poured down the drainby languid veins)the clinking of glassesand racing hearts,we cannot stopwhat we did startit's all an escape- a sick paradox:we're runningfrom ourselves.
.in keeping aliveyour yesterdays,you are killingyour tomorrows
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.
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
AsylumRing sparkround the greycorridors -shock start;are the patientsstill in cells?