finals week meditations
1 cigarette breath, i watched a play like it was a movie last night
placing and rearranging in the slumbers of study, tenacious and yearning for an explanation of how and what i should feel
during the long drawls of finals week.
i become aware of the crescents forming on my fingernails, how limber and cold my hands feel under the fluorescent light.
i think i shall go insane. i think i cannot breath all the lives i've lived, am living and will pretend to live.
drowning in the ecstasy between work and play, piecing it out with the immense gravity of death possibly
waiting behind
the corner,
tucked away neatly behind a door frame.
i become desensitized to the all-knowing knowledge of when is when
and if enough is enough.
and so, my arms simply drift and hang in the indian summer heat- what great poetic weather.
and yet, i shall recover the metal scraps, the tinge of nerve and blood and live the next day
more unknowing, more clean, more substantial and less understanding still.
2 peaceful absinthe, still fluid.
i would like to drink in your ocean and feel, once again, whole.
whole like when the first sperm-drop fuses with the delicate egg.
to float above, deliver commandments with little worry and much detachment
to feel a human version of holy, celestial and trembling with All-Knowledge
to sink in the love-mass, in synchronicity with myself- to embrace the end of a period to a question- its ultimacy.
and yet, i feel the atmosphere weighted on my shoulders, swallowed by gravity
-every tinge and tingle of my blood kills to be exposed to the seemingly inviting night air.
breaking bread is too difficult here. everything is unresponsive, nonreactive, hollow, dead, floats mindlessly-
rears its ugly head like the limp seaweed bobbing in salty black seas of real time.
the world is quiet after the fall from sin,
the cord is cut and yet still sparks- confusion runs rampant and we die, unknowing of our days.
2.2 a slight shuffle
a soft sniffle
a long withdraw
the coming of summer heat
wingtipped pens, looseleaf paper
an inorganic silence.
an indecision- a lack of words- stupid.
3 lover, you are such a fucker.
you monstrous draught- you are the action which washes, treads, tumbles and slams, shreds, hangs me out like
laundry on a single thread and watches, prowls, destroys me with your mercurial blue-gaze.
you, with your hot tongue and tissued lips, coaxed me from the sacred vestal, the hearth of home- warmth and goodness.
you blew smoke into my face and made my lipstick bleed; you danced the dance of mystics, the distillation of your soft perfume
intoxicated me, the feel of your shirt brushing against my cheek.
i wove tapestries of time, erasing doubt and regret, looked on from the stairtop and took the final plunge-
to no avail, but only the pristine realization that rescue was a random point of light, kneaded- in me, already, at conception.
i feel the incestuous waters of my form swell, macerated tomato puncture and explode within every thin, dark membrane,
seep every black-silhouetted blood corpuscle, kerouac's 'good glad fluid' and i swell the morning of, smelling of your desires
in the deep, purple night and clinging to the jugular vein, a pink,
thudding mash- bruise with the best sexual intentions- a valley-girl scarlet letter.
4 RAGE/
RAGE/ AT THE WORLD
RAGE/ AS IF TOMORROW WILL SCAR YOUR FLESH
RAGE ON/ ROCK ON/ BELIEVE IN MAGIC- BELIEVE IN HOPE
BELIEVE IN ALL THAT IS WORTH BEING ALIVE FOR (may not be much).
5 soft velvet, tissue fabric against the horizons of my chest.
i feel the immense swell of the universe- creation of the cosmos
and suddenly- the forsakening of the world as we combine our
sacred energies to create one massive, coherent whole.
and suddenly, the crows sing in the distance and the night shivers against
the blue backdrop of some late atmospheric phenomenon.
And the world is no longer whole, but rather, inconsistent, unattainable
random patches of utmost serene and clean blue- pink sky.
And i return from my bedsheets, filled with a new horizon
that can never be.
And i seep in the blood of my own existence
And wish of another tomorrow, another chance to see betrayal.
