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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.
It Is Bad to Be [READ DESCRIPTION]It is bad to be fat, too skinny, average, curvy.Blonde = Stupid, Black = Emotional, Brunette = Boring, Red = Soulless, Colorful = Too CreativeIt is bad to be gay, trans, heterosexual, lesbian, asexual, pansexual, demisexual, bisexual, etc.It is bad to be Christian, atheist, Catholic, Agnostic, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Polytheistic, Monotheistic, etc.It's bad to be a different race:Black = Dirty or Nigger, White = Racist or Cracker, Hispanic/Latino/Latina = Illegal, Asian = AlienIt is bad to be a woman, man, or genderless.It is bad to be homeless, middle class, rich.There is a judgement for every single personWhether you believe prejudice people do not exist, or do exist.Whether you believe you are not good enough, or too good for anybody.Whether you believe humans are created equal, or not.Whet
you are what you lovethis girl dreamsfar too much;her bed has turned intoa nightmare graveyard,full of wilted rosesand broken spines.wanderlust is a toxin.one that fills her lungs with eachbreath and with every poisonedheartbeat, she yearns for a worldwith moons of gold and a silver sun.yet—she would rather listento those sweet nothings than havethe philosophy of realityshoved down her throat.this girl does not wantto live in black and white;no, she craves colorand the freedom it tastes like and ifthe chains that that shackle herstarving soul refuse to unlock,she will tear them apartwith her own two hands.
The SameYou.Me.Assholes.I don't see the difference,We're all going to die.
grow up, dreamer girlwe can't all keep wishing and running on starlight.sometimes, the magic runs out.you may be made to run your fingers through silk petals and glossy hair,but i am expected to be dark earth, a pillar of metal and rust,an open woundi want to run back to my dreams, but sometimes they areno longer there, or their flights have been delayed again.
unthey call me tide-breaker.my name frequentswhores' mouths,and they speak of mebetween the sailors' maps.I am salt and brinebeneath fingernails,the oncoming threatof dark clouds that hangtheir gallows above the ocean.I'm the enigma,the split-secondflash of lighton the sea's cusp;they only ever thinkthey see me,but I am always there.oh yes,I've seen theirdirtied skin,their weathered faces,that lustful thirstin the eyes of men surrounded by water.it is only natural, I suppose,for those bound in chainsto grow fond of the metallic clacking.it becomes all they have.and I, well,I am only hereto watch and play my part.their wives at homewill look seawardand sighand wonderbut it is Iwho will have someone to hold.they say mermaidsdrown unworthy sailors,but they never acknowledgethat most men simplythrow themselves overboardat the temptation of something beautiful.
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.
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.
.i will break my heartlong before youever get the chance;this is not a matterof lovethis is a matterof survival
.you are an open bookwith a strong spine;you, toohave a story to tell
AsylumRing sparkround the greycorridors -shock start;are the patientsstill in cells?