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Yesterday and yesterday and yesterday
I spun hard in the dark and feared Raindrops like hammers To my knots Disruption of sticking place. Down pour a drum A drum on the pavement below Each blow a blow to sound My own dying fall. I cast my last thread Silken yeses and muses nine - A cry shall we meet? Before falling into the slumber Of death and death sweet. Then awaken surprise! A swallow's call Deep and raising blues Of the morning rays. Blinking eight-eyed in the sun Belly full of fire- Breathing for the first time Not a wail this time - This time, my opening and moan This time, my blood and shed Not my mother's And the prisms On my web whisper the strands To shaking the remaking Of my body
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It's as if the ocean, deep and wide, its unfathomable fathoms, swallowed me and I acclimated to the eels. I did not ask for it - their jolt like medicine, clearing the eyes. In the weightless interims, the shocking pauses, they decorate my fingers, my biceps, my thighs, their jaundiced bejeweled eyes. Then - electric ecstasy of light! - right now, now, just now, my insides are, there!, no, longer, blind. Trembling body, you are precious especially around the edges of pain. Send pulses out and out and I know I have now, now, touched them back, snakes of the dark, over their backs, my own, my, tremorous water, the container which makes us one, they and I, to who does what belong -
a finger, a bicep, a thigh  It is icy.
"You can let go if you need to." I would not drop these bottles to save myself. "But you can. Consider if you don't." There would be repercussions. "What would they be?" Blood and wine mixing, thawing the pavement - the imagery is a little Christ heavy don't you think? "Do you have a God complex." Only so far as my mistakes in this alley are for someone else to clean up to watch from a window to feast on we could go so far as to say I am a walking favor even in death. "Oh there is no good you know that." Yes there only is Him waiting at the iron gate Hooded Holding nothing But my hands - My hands - Hold on.  A dawn of a new year and the world resolves to begin again. For some of us, it is a day whose antics we reject and instead, simply carry on. But of course I refused to wash myself lest I lose any luck the transition brought me. Continue on unwashed I did. Wondering what of my spirit of disreview and unresolve? What of rejection of backwards or fore? I organized under cabinets and other small spaces, I played the guitar and ate rice, imagining myself devout and undistractedly devoted. That this was and is everyday. The peas and rice, the quiet, disciplined movement in a solitary reverence to the task. For moments, I was a saint. Beyond flesh, looking up and up. The rice only sustaining in the least fulfilling of ways. Up I was, unpenetrable and filled. Full with piety, I become easy tyrannical. I eat each pea with secret glea. My sunken flesh and hard jawline a trophy. Bearing my body as a burden but in my heart, deep in my heart, I am proud. On the cobbled walkways, the click of a simple but well-soled shoe. The earth holds the blood of believers before me. I say "I will join you." That too fills me up. Back in my room, out of my head and only surrounded by the glow of a table lamp, I think I miss believing. I wonder if it is easier. In this moment, glowing, I remember.
 Tens o’ thousand miles up off o’ the floor
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Taigé LaurenThe senses are dead. Something about my work goes here. Archives
March 2019
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