Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

I Found Myself As This One Latenight Chasing Shadows Across the Ceiling

and she found herself as one of those shadows.

Disjointed phrases
scratching long-ish fingernails across a wood floor
SHE-found herself as one of those scratchings
I located her as a windfall
this bitter-delicate thing
this petroleum bag
swallowed by tree-limbs then let go
caught in the spindly things like sultry witch fingers.
SHE-located herself as the -phrenia to my schizo-
but also the thing which keeps me calm
and it is a strange clam
it is encroached on on a sidewalk by hovering little vortexes
these kansas tornados
the post-vortex-wichita-sutras ginsy never could've imagined.

it is that all love ends in death
That All Love Ends in Death
but does it really?
naw, I don't think it does
I think it tears from the flesh of death
and lives forever as a happy vampire.

it is that all religion ends in extacy
that that opens the out door
that real paradise is, pretty frankly, in hell,
seeing bright lights in orgasm snap-seconds.
and if our religion was love, we could live forever and let the vampires carry 'round the chunks of us that argue like blood brothers over the definition of sacred.
but we ain't there yet
we ain't there yet,
not mattering how much in the back of our minds we know that those that were here a long, long, time before us did a helluva lot better than we ever could. before slave trades turned this whole love business into a slave trade and a business.
now those of us who still give a fuck got caught blood fingered murdering the business and the slave in our second selves and the innocence there too just so we could know these things firsthand;
what it means to be almost right
what it means to be carnal
and what it means to be cruel.

cus we know that
just as long as we will never love
we will never be capable of murder
and that if you care enough
there ain't no such thing as suicide.

this ain't 'bout you
whoever the fuck you are
because by the time you got here,
to my pen,
it was already bleeding so much of the new wine that i was too drunk to remember yr face,

bleeding fucking blood

getting me in and out of the massive human rave that keeps me in and out of calm

flickering brightness machine, she was telling me that all love doesn't end in death
and i said, baby, that don't even matter,
we ain't either of those places yet.

It is ambling and structureless as this poem,
a freight without tracks
It is ambling and structureless as this poem
a freight without tracks
repetitive as this phrase
repetitive as that metaphor,
as much a spiritual communion as this sharpie on paper
and it stares me down like the man across from me at the diner is now, we are the only two people in the room.
It is that never happening AK I will shoot you with in the revolution.
It is the perpetually bullet-less revelatory rhapsody I've found, like, stumbled across.
it is never looking back at the thing that came before...like the way i wrote this.
It is never looking back at the thing that came before
It is elaborate chicken scratch on white paper
it is glorious as this thump-thoomp-thoomp
like coffee on a do-nothing day,
this raw-boned tingle
and the day and you stretch on before me like I can see it all at once
translucent as that window on Cherokee
where time is broken-down
translucent as that window
endless as this thought process.

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