GINSBERG. i wanna go out in a car | not leave word where i’m going
the rest of the earth is unseen | an outer universe invisible | unknown except thru language | or prophecy of the secret heart the same | in
SKYWRITERS, LIARS IN THE FACE OF DIVINITY
but i will die only for poetry; that will save the world.
god but i loved his murdered face when he talked with a mouth full of rain in
i am talking to myself again (everybody must have been a spy)
he threw up his hands & wrote
the universe don’t exist
& died to prove it.
three, their bellies lit gold feathers dripping molten drops of yellow sand melded from the tips of sunflares too close, like icarus, they float passed the sun, and across the steps. where have they come from? deep. others come in droves, like fighter planes in formation. wings outstretched, catching the invisible channels of air, and sleek like metallic humming engines with heartbeats, they arrive across the seas. (petrels are the smallest.) between the mountainous peaks of
pacific pelagic swells
quick! on their feet. skimming.
great silent wind beaten rises steady as the pelicans glide, gulping. the frigates dive and wail, stealing fish from the mouths of the gulls of the red-footed boobies. pirates, corsairs of the skies. the rest, they come in
ten’s and twenties, in the shape of their bodies, spread through layers of the atmosphere as if it were a glass staircase, and they were resting on its forward moving steps out to sea. to their element. where nothing is sacred but the spray, and the precarious return to waiting chicks? or scattered feathers, to deathly cold flesh. no bird knows the truth. like a chandelier of paper cranes strung on tinsel wire above the volcanic remnants left by the crushing waves, they seem to spin, float, freely flying without movement, the expenditure of energy. the invasion comes as the sun is dropping heavy on black satin set to undulating. their droves fight the currents in the air, and I watch them, tumultuous, unable to resist leaping from the bow to join in their persuasion.
beach as eternal sunshine. the infinite abyss. photons bounce up and over gullies of sand which have been furrowed by feet and waves waves waves. bioluminescent glow from turquoise lamps hidden in the ocean floor. the distance disappears where they have faded and all sound has been sucked out into the rolling and rushing of the water as it swings wildly into the Pacific basin (coast to coast, the currents driving the wind from beneath, the fishes leaping as their dorsal extravagances break the tidal blue tierra)
there is something about total blackness that is comfortable to me. it allows my brain to fold into itself, find layers of sound that had been obscured by other senses and in memory I can remember these firings of synapse and recall their exact location. one day, when I am old and unable to see I will live in these sounds, cataracts smiling with the recollection.
ahhhh! this is my barbaric yawp.
I hate the circus. but I’d run away to one in a heartbeat, elephants and all. I could set them free.
there would be a stampede!
even the jungle can become like habit. one foot after another, along the ground, your body becomes rhythmic, almost mechanic. but the strain on your muscles is the reminder of the distance you’ve covered. fluid movement, around bends and through trees, its like a walking meditation. something more ephemeral than the congregation of all the minutes in your life. like, for the moment as you pass through the holes in the canopy towering, you are made of snake skin, of speckled air.
(the shins make me miss home. and “backyard” makes me think of 894, of driving solo unbeknownst to my mother, to visit k. of wispirgish road trips. of
we are all obsessed with our own origins. where our blood began. in the scheme of things, none of it really matters, I guess, but when attempting to look backwards over the magnifying glass on your miles, you need a point in the distance to center yourself. an umbrella for the tightrope.
the snipers zero in on us. each shot becomes a word spoken by death. death is talking to us. death wants to tell us a funny secret. we may not like death, but death likes us. victor Charlie is hard but he never lies. guns tell the truth. guns never say “I’m only kidding.” war is ugly because the truth can be ugly and war is very sincere. – gustav hasford.
the ink spills black and sticks; you scrub your skin with stiff haired wire and still it stays. the sand between your toes slides slow and silent into the sea, where there are fishes floating still in the midst of all that salty dreaming. (whatever will we do with ourselves when we’ve got nothing left to talk about; nothing left to love without. my ears are yours and only time will tell how long their echoes will remember the sound). and in the end, you’ll see, there is nothing so glorious as this blood racing terror we’ll be trapped inside, because within that painful thumping, the great racheting breach of your ribs, there is the sensation of visceral life, without which, no one would ever be really sure of their living. and in the end, this is all that really matters.
to everyone who has given me words. beautiful ones and heartbroken ones and angry ones too. you are the reason I have the memory that I do.
…waiting for me to hold on, for me to breathe out.
we warm ourselves on bloody songs and sunny dreams. bloody psalms and salty dreams. bloody palms and sawdust dreams. Aristotle, like a long lost lover; ma universe blows, and the planet spins heads or tails with her man, watching, waiting to engulf her. on the axis, even she tries to reverse. there is nothing so fragile as me, when it comes to you.
Dolabrifera dolabrifera: warty sea cat (so cute!)
Oceanites gracilis: Elliott’s storm petrel
revel. let it be.
pretty mcdimples face and gordito mcnasty pants.
the surfers five and their sailboat of chaos (the wynndakken)
april fools day.
impeccable drunken spelling.
conversations on benches in art museums.
it is okay to be a girl. (even in
ginsberg: [witchita vortex sutra] [iron horse] & [don’t grow old]
the short-timers, by g. hasford.
[sympathy] and [can’t get it right]
grey’s anatomy, and missing.
dreams about the pool, and the stable.
swimming with fins.
jesus and the glass tiendita.
the look, and those eyes, and the reason.
god says yes to me. (kaylin haught)
i asked god if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes.
i asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is.
i asked her if i could wear nail polish or not,
and she said HONEY
(she calls me that sometimes)
she said you can do just exactly what you want to.
thanks god, i said.
and is it even okay if i don’t paragraph my letters?
SWEETCAKES god said,
(who knows where she picked that up)
what i’m telling you is
yes. yes. yes.