I brush my keen father feather against the flesh of the night, the air inside your vowel sound gives way to the blaying and bleating of this goat beard. breathless, suddenless, thunderous one-ness of this compositionality, positional martyrdom, sacrificial bartering at the market stalls of our unison. beautiful brick wall,
Just surviving in these times, that's about all one can do. The day will come again when my free time flows freely toward experimentation and stories and art and love. Right now, to give myself the kindness of just getting through, that's about all I can do. I've often wanted
Musk of life is a pheremone trail. You accept your urge. Until one day you lose the scent. Everything flowers, everything blooms, and then wilts stamen-first into a droop of metling flesh. Everything sexes, and everything secretes, especially the thin membranes near our sense, impressed. Crevices of flesh against the
The turn inward, the turnaround, the turn outward. Seasons turn. I've been journaling these last many months, but that was not for you. That was for me. And now I wonder what happens if I write for you, for me, again. Greys and blues out to the horizon, and muted
This monochrome dawn is breaking. Will grumbles of her own concerns. I do not remember my dreams, but I do stride in the direciton of my will. I am learning to speak again. I am learning to care about the mundane world again, and I am unafraid anywhere, to ask