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26 June 2006 @ 01:03 am
not now, but then  
-a chance found within its own cosmic necessity



How sexual this demand is-
to be alone and willful with words, to determine the sky a living figure of rage and conflict and trust.
How sexual is this lacking when silenced--

Only here, determined, curving and red.
Only here can I smile and carry it along. only
Only here
has it has made me visceral and globally an antidromic organ
and if that is true, your severed liver's other.



Is this fantasy of bigger-than-blue eyes,
as if once i met the sky and it winked
more lonesome than I am?

This left-over, non-budging and open-eyed, open-mouthed dream of a child–
that I was and still hate to be.
alongside the rails where we were traveling and trembling in opposites.
it is me, thoughtlessly committed to the cycle, still surprising,
the rush, the return, as a passion-prayer.

Remembrance of what I was closer to then–-simple,
trusting faith in the shared meanings of need and thought, excitement and silence, want and hurting


maybe i understand us best when we are the red muscle, tissue beating, still i am antidromic; the open-mouthed polyglot organ tucked inside, away--outside of us and still open-mouthed, sucking in the air the way i remember; when all the tumbling of us, me was contained in our own drunken novel. but i am here and on a plane and the window-you and the aisle-other-you talked anyway--i am a foreigner and there is always the seatbelt to stare at.


If I was to translate the world
into a language I could trust,
there would be no world.
Not a place -but this-


you have the bigger-than-blues, you and i stretch longer
than a landscape of intestines--
yet still we scatter, like a cat's attention,
not only are we migrating in and out of our continents of bodies and orating with our eyes

truth is a too-late whore,
frigid too long, revolting against its own values.

time becomes an object to fling somewhere else.

I want what I imagine. And there is no time for shame, I simply can’t wait for it.
I imagine again and again, were these the wishes of Freud in his own conceived womb?

Footsteps across bodies, sweet rot within
shadows charged with glittery dust.

placentas are worn in wide-eyed dreams-
-our war-halo is deliberate.
tissue filaments, sweet and white-hot
feasting on the eager demands
of the burning-up, craving, sky.

This is the pulsing placenta, the union,
the tantalizing, darker conflicts of mouthing desires.

not the words of lovers, or literature, or the inhabited space between our hips.
This is not a long-internalized, feminine fantasy of repressed desire.
This is not mother’s romance with uninhibited submission
or unresolved, infantile longing.

-not even some cracked, pseudo-freudian-dressed-in-buddhist-sacrifice.

Closing my eyes for the last wasted instant-
leaning back with my
palms up.

This is the dream of nature,
where mountains become mountains,
peaking with the bliss of conflict.
 
 
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