goddess of self-harm

In seventy-two hours I have managed to bite into my lip 4 times. I believe this is a personal best. If you add the paper cut I got, I appear to be approaching 'goddess of self-harm' status. Shhh. Don't tell them they were all accidental. Please. I need my devotées.

imaginary friend

History has no heart to give, and not a heart to take
it combs through the sand dunes like a snake.

Time strung out on a wash line, 

weighed down by wet blankets.
Five of ten generations fallen to knees, 

to catch the rolling heads of failed monarchies. 

And so goes the common revolutionary narrative.
The numbers anticipated it all.

Hers was not uncalculated risk.

She took tireless heed of the numbers

and counting, left no room for guesswork

 or doubting. 

Emotional coloring would be of great use

to intention. Logic got the nod. Reason

got a mention. 

The battlefield would be determined by alignment of stars.
She shared with her generals the finest Dominican cigars.
She was pathologically obsessed 

with synchronizations

 to relieve stress. 

A single number 

could send shock waves through the rest.

Kinship with her was allocated by dreams. 

Material ties was not her imperative.
They would break off on their own,

falling from the beams.

When her people protested it hurt her heart so deep.
The leaders of protest were often asleep.

She did not sanction violence, but in some cases it happened.
She allowed for proper burials 

per dictates of culture and tradition.
Any failure in that regard led to charges of sedition.

Some of the prophecies just blew her mind.
She shook her fist at time, but never cursed the divine.
She became tired and let down her guard.

Then awaited a sign. 

Pacing and racing
nights and days through the catacombs,
the last safe place from it all.

Suffering the dawn of her
eloquently stated
much anticipated
emancipation
from any and all relative life support.

I received her newswire off my cortex wall,
hundreds of years later
and I liked it.

I imagined she was my best friend
in two thousand
and ten. 

candle light transmissions

Hollow me out
tonight
somewhere far from home

vanish from earth and memory
the dreadful sights
those nights

then set the waxy wick
afire in the cold. the dark
downtown

ancestral
blood shot eyes await
resurgence

there will be no tears
no cries... no wars of words locked up
in dreadful knots

who or
why
it matters not

they see us
they laugh
they cross
our path

the careless
misled and lost
love to draw
a misfit off
the path

peppered by salty
tongue

undefinable so
swims 'cross a murky
                              sky

tell me god and
goddess where
are we

where
       am i

soft so sweet

These words may not escape
the page to tell of human suffer age

the type set down
conformed
now weighs
the anchor of the mind
for days

who knows what falls
what follows
next

in line the sheeps keep ewes
in check

before E the eye
of goddess
rest
before you the Q
only the best

four times the power
of the sun
four times
the grave's recedent
depth

eight days a week
or more
the images drop the
feelings pour

out on to some blank lonely
space some
cloud banked in sky's silk
blue lace

would the words
simply obey
would they scream so loud
toward May

the spring she dips our fields
in green the asphalt falls
beneath the scene

i love this so the path unseen
the fleecing of all thoughts to
clean

i love you long like rivers
run i love you to the set of sun

let us lie together
 feel the heat
and kiss so tender
soft so sweet

Rolling Allostasis -x)

And so goes the common revolutionary narrative. The opposition carried untold numbers. She took nothing more serious. Scrutiny was their middle name. Some of her prophecies just blew their mind. They shook their fists at times, and threatened great violence. Some of which was carried out in a spectacular show of untold force. They bombed our back yards. Our victory gardens, hung defeated. Falling premature off the vine. Hard and without fruit, the trees scorched the air with barren branches. Many of us looked up just so, and cursed the divine. We became tired. We tried to let some of it go. We let down our guard of which had not yet already been demolished, and awaited some sign. Suffering before the dawn of our eloquently stated, much anticipated, emancipation from any and all relative life support. Only She would let us breathe free again. Like chantix in the blood, but better. She was like willpower, but better. She was like a freeway seam, stitching a patchwork of concrete and farmed family squares, to the wilderness of her personal (collectively scorned) dream. Speaking truth to power would be no bed of roses, though she would not force us to do anything. She modelled her style. We got to witness it, if we only showed up. Her runway was  gigantic like the Pixies : a big, big love. She taught us we could make it, before we even knew what we were making. We received her message via newswire.

Maybe half of us subscribed. The other half unsubscribed. Half of the latter half prayed for strength to endure the former half. The better half. The better half of the half in prayer, became lost. Half of the lost became found. Half of the found, found themselves. The rest were relegated to the lost and found. Half of those who found themselves, experienced an awakening. The other half fell asleep. Half of those awakened experienced enlightenment. The other half freaked out. Half of the enlightened set with the sun. The other half were engulfed by darkness. Half of those who cast shadows, stood seven feet tall. The rest turned into tumbleweeds and tumbled down the hall. Half of those who stood seven feet tall, grew egos ten feet long. The other half checked their egos. Half the ones whose egos became checked, knew that they were wrong. The other half took swan dives whilst singing swan songs. Half of the swan songs auditioned for the Voice. The other took a dive in ratings, because they had no choice. Half of those auditioning, were booed right off the show. The other half went on to notoriety in small suburban towns. Half of those who lost their fame before it came, turned into phoenix out of ash, and rose up from the flames. Half of those who underwent the alchemy, now undertook great hardship. The other half flew south for summer. The ones still there, you could almost count, while lying in bed awake. They were not sheep. They were not dead. They were characterized in universal press, as having five to fifty heads.

Rolling allostasis -iv)

She was in her twenties, when she surfaced from the midsection of an iceberg, the frozen contents of some formerly fluid collective subconscious experience. In the middle of nowhere, mind you. A slow drip of unhappening. Congealed into living memories (consistency of molasses).  So she thawed from her heart out, and the ice around her began to soften in her light and heat, and collect supine at her feet. Aqua devotion. If water had hands... then prayer beneath her dry eyes. So rare did this sorta manifestation occur. The glaciers melt in their natural way before her. And she takes her damn time. You don’t hurry a glacier. You age it, like wine. Or wait for her to melt, to reference empirical evidence of global warming. Melting butter at room temperature. She never left the kitchen table. Painting her daily bread. Turning and turning yellow over time with the wallpaper. Gotta get worse before she gets better. Baby blue with white flowers, soft and malleable. Almost vulnerable, fallible – almost human again. As she wishes. As they want her. Sorry says the fight inside her, delivering the roundhouse Queen Anne Victorian style. Round one...TKO. From a frozen warrior #2 asana. Feel the heat. Sauna.