SNAKE.S.KIN
12.4.20
all this noise
all this noise and lack of movement
makes all fundamental pleasures
even sex somehow less exciting.
At this fucking point
the Devil’s sins have reached the saturation levels with our fate strings.
meaning, it doesn’t matter whether he sins more or less.
Author: admin
FOX.HYDE
12.3.20
I learned, after some bruises, a broken nose, and some pride injuries; to stop picking fights.
Later, I kicked, slapped, whipped, lashed, burned, and yes, punched for my way onto a meal.
Around the same time, I learned how to protect my body from these same generous ATM-like punching bags.
This is all to say. I carry my lessons in my marrow. So yes. I will remain civil.
But don’t be fooled.
Nature has made up her mind that what cannot defend itself shall not be defended. We both know who’s side nature is on here.
GARFIELD / HISTORY
12.2.20
I’ll tell you what the hardest part has been:
Becoming content with the light in the window, and the thud thud of sometimes soft, sometimes angry feet.
We’re not so different, us humans and waves. Making homes along any shore we touch. If we learn how to forgive ourselves for getting the sand wet, we may even be salvagable.
You’ve got me backwards. This really is not, and has nothing to do with disposition. See, if you choose to paint me rose, make sure you add the thorns.
It’s more a question of weather my thorns and I draw blood, solely because we have teeth. Or because we are touched by wild, untrained hands.
There must be some type of beginning, by the end of this.
11.27.20
JAGUAR
tastes like passionflower
the dimlight walkway you never looked for
but traced the sweetest path forward
we see what we want to see
from the windows we sit in front of
but you’ve opened doorways
out of the in-between
with suit jackets, poems, and cityscapes
onto something better
more whole
when loss stops feeling empty;
now, it mirrors your heartbeat
it says “nothing is as it was.”
and we nod
knowing we’ve got trails, and paths, and walkways left unexplored
but, maybe for the first time, we learn
bridges don’t mean exit rows
the city at night looks enough like our stars
i chart them in my bloodstream
paint them olive juice and swoon
11.25.20
CIVIL.WARS
Goodnight, good-morning. Good day to disassociate.
someone asked me if it was “pleasant”.
Yes. Of course it’s pleasant.
Cumulative sleep deprivation gives you only knives to eat the world-oyster. Dissimulated and camouflaged, I’m a tourist in my body, a stranger in my mind. Witnessing myself on auto-pilot and realizing this aircraft features wit at no extra cost.
No, I’m not absent minded. In fact, it’s the presence of mind that makes me unaware of everything else. It’s the compartmentalization of somatic experiences, consciousness, and identity. That same compartmentalization that disallows me for taking credit for diplomacy.
See, when I turn the other cheek, it is because my tongue is tired of being held between my teeth. Air sign, sure, but a fixed sign none-the-less, and you squeezed all the air out of your lungs with the last of your drunk slurs.
You don’t get to come back from that bar. Fix yourself a drink about it.
Don’t forget I had a basinful of you. At your best, and your worst, I choose to remember both. So yeah, I resent your name on my calendar. These times have taught me the weight of impact measured in social interactions carry viral loads. I fill time slots with presence and purpose more and more.
Your unwillingness to see me outside of you, is both proof of your blindingly short self-awareness, and my penchant for believing a little too much. What use is it to bite my tongue instead of yours, after spending years talking to a sentient, self-righteous rock. Who’s the dummy in this one? The rock refusing to acknowledge the person? Or a person too dull to know rocks don’t have eyes, much less mouths or ears.
Don’t mistake this with hate. This is something…. closely resembling tolerance: a very lukewarm emotional stew of disgust, contempt, pity, and sympathy.
Tally that onto the list of things you’ll never know about me.
I will get coffee, I will smile, I will make you feel loved, missed, welcome. You will jiggle back home all pompous and priggish. I’ll come back to my secretes. The things you never read, or heard, or witnessed.
This isn’t about you.
This resentment isn’t even half about you. It’s resentment at doing things you don’t want to avoid awkward social faux-pas, it’s wanting to hold a lover among friends but knowing there’ll be scorn, it’s disillusionment, it’s apathy, it’s knowing my worth, my graces.
or maybe just sleep deprivation.
11.23.20
JAGUAR
“I can’t wait to show you how I see you over time.”
or,
I can’t wait to prove to myself, finally
the chisel marks you carve on your jawline
will not affect how I see your smile
for as long as I am able
I’ll help clean up the rubble
when your mind-tantrums earthquake your temple
I’ll continue to bless it holy
bring prayer and offering
because we all need to be told we are worth castles
and we all need to know
even restless hands can hold
I wish the goodness of my intentions,
the proof of my actions
took up as much space,
held as much weight
as the walls your heart constructs
with the indiscretion of your insecurities
11.20.20
GARFIELD
This was never supposed to be battle.
Never wanted arrows from release, daggers from “let go.”
These words were supposed to be pure and open. Parts of the secrete self agreeing to hug the public.
They’ve made pistols from the fabric of my most mad, most insane.
Pacifists turned target practice.
Scared meerkats heard mirror call them “monsters”. Now they burrow in paper pages, noses twitch with guilt when they poke out from their dirt home. Dirt like un-pure, like un-polished, like un-refined, un-pretty.
Was that the wrong thing to think? Yes of course it was. What they saw wasn’t a release. It was an exorcism.
Detailed and cataloged, they circle back to the bookmarks of the great purge to cover your intentions with the stench and vomit of what was, but was never real.
I’m running out of safe words.
11.19.20
BOOT.S.TRAPS
I guess in many ways, I’m learning to be an anchor.
Because I’ve finally realized my life is the size of a crayon box and only I can choose to use every color outside the lines of black and white.
Choosing to believe in something isn’t closing yourself off.
The ocean never stops kissing the shoreline after all.
CIVIL.WARS
11.15.20
unintentionally
i’ve revealed a secrete
to them,
and me
how bodies only
meet hearts for the rare
today
im all chains and fingernail marks
dermis imprints fading over time
trying not to wallow in transient
attracted the passing kind
the type that
scratch the surface
11.14.20
DREAMS
Running fingertips through planetary extracts – a pipeline connecting this spine of mine from body to Earth. Bedrock on and pulse guiding eyes to starlight. How many more can there be up there?
That’s not the point, or it very well could be. Right now Mars drips into retinas and fills the body light. Pushing down down down to earth, quacking and shaking and spilling onto pleasure as if all there could ever be on in this universe is electricity and conduit.
And conduit I am.