10.16.20
BOOT.S.TRAPS
clocks keep on ticking when you’re sleeping
and im painfully aware of each second
i may be a fool
but i know the invebitibility of humanity
the little trickle of time dedicated for my life is fucking precious
maybe not to you, or the world
but it is to me, and that’s enough
i plan to live every ounce of it in Temperance
in the wisdom of the Fool
that sparks the fire behind the Sun that holds hands with the High Priestess.
this, is how i create The World
no a drop spilled. not anymore.
10.16.20
MIRROR
oh shut up. shut up. shut up. shut up.
let’s set the record straight;
you left. I stayed.
im still here, i simply choose not to make time for insolence
im building a person of action and crisp
this chaos takes nurturing, it takes dedication, it takes focus and perseverance.
there’s a storm brewing in me. im electric with action and disposition. no longer splashing with my rainboots in little mellow ponds. i want ferocity, i want passion, i want feeling. this tepid, luke-warm, perfunctory, mediocre-briefness of “settle” does not compliment the tsunami in me.
im not playing this game anymore – recess is over
ball is in no court, i’ve passed my judgment, in this trial im jury, and executioner.
meet me where im at, or take your broken strings and leave
DREAMS
10.15.20
From growl to purr.
He said “I want it to burst from my lips.”
It was less burst, and more serene. Entwined its way between the borough of her lips and the nape of my neck, it nuzzled itself in a sleepy cradle of two spoons and a million different carbon molecules.
As if to say, “rest now.” That moment the rescue realizes this home is no foster. The refugee breaking bread with his kin in a new country, a new tire bolted safely, getting to see your grandmothers’ face one more time before she dies, the empty chamber of a retired gun, a child returning home from the hospital with normal oxygen levels, clocking out on your last day of a job you hate, walking in on the first day of a job you love, the first bite after break-fast, a warm shower on cold skin, you are safe here.
Me? I am lightning, thought tornadoes slapped against the walls of my heartbeats skipping from disbelieve-to- panic-to-ecstasy-to-what? Relief?
If you could lay your eyes upon the most fire-hardened, most cruel and unpitying person alive, during sleep and at the moment of waking, you would see in them for a moment the untainted child spirit, the pure innocent. In sleep we are once again brought back to a state of sweetness. In sleep we are remade. We are reassembled from the inside out, fresh and new as innocents.”
Clarissa Pinkola – Women Who Run with Wolves,
Chapter 5. Hunting, When the Heart is a Lonely Hunter
The Sleep of Trust
DREAMS
10.14.20
Always with the perfect response, eh? You know, your face speaks as loudly as your words.
BOOT.S.TRAPS
10.14.20
How quickly my heart-tides turn;
I have until the hour I die to feel all the things I want to feel, do all the things I want to do, speak all the words I want to say. It sounds less and less fair the older I get, so if you’ll excuse me (this is a polite command, not a request) I’ll be on my way now.
Don’t look at me with war in your eyes. This is a white flag. When you snarl “how many times can your heart break?!” I will bite back with “as many times as it can heal.”
No, I will never hate you. But once you meet people like us, you’ll know there are things in this world that sting more than hate. Hate is anger over something lost, hate is passion, hate is misguided, it’s caring for the wrong things but it is still caring.
Indifference? Indifference is to unkiss, to unremember, to unhold, to undream, to undo everything that ever was and leave smooth stone behind in its wake.
No Fire.
No Earthquakes.
No Fury.
Just, Nothing.
And that is worse than hate.
So, on the days you drag me by the hand, yelling, “This is important! And this is important! And this is important! You need to worry about this! And this! And this!”
I will yank my hand back, put it on my heart and say, “No. This is what’s important.”
I’m done playing tug-o-war with ambivalence. You keep your rope, I captain a fine ship without it thank-you-very-much.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
I pull back because you lack gratitude.
So yeah, it’s personal.
JAGUAR
10.13.20
I’ve been giving thoughts to tension.
Trying to wrap my brain around that word, what was it? Contrarian? Combative? Opposing? The perfect mixture of over caffenation, old towns, and folk music. I guess it doesn’t really matter.
I’m starting to realize, I got this little fable of mine all wrong; you’ve always been more Emperor than Fool. What I saw in your eyes was less your beginning, and more an image of my own reflection. Call it Foolish yearning.
I should’ve know– I’ve always been the type of person who believes the most reckless thing we can do with our hearts, is to not be reckless with them at all. So yeah, I stomped my feet when you told me the brightest flames burn the quickest. See, when you saw us as a candle, I saw us as the Sun.
I look for patterns, because that’s what humans do to try and make sense of things. In hope of some star-like order. I look for gravity in phrases, play Russian Roulette with your playlists, watch for symbols in the things I read, points and swirls that my match my own. But the real pattern there is, is the one I make when I hold up a mirror. And reflect.
Being gifted doesn’t mean you’ve been given something. It means you have something to give. So, I guess I should say, I’m sorry. I saw in you something seed, and yearned to grow it not realizing I was never given permission.
Well…. more like, ignoring your shouts of protest. And look, this isn’t an excuse, but have you ever met a fox who didn’t ignore fences? I closed my ears to the “stand back”, “don’t get too close”, “keep your distance”. I hear you now, and I guess I’ll resign myself to continue making the world beautiful simply by refusing to lie about it.
DATURA
10.12.20
You must have good posture.
I mean it. Stand up. Stand up straight. Let your shoulder-blades hug your spine, your tailbone tuck beneath your hips. May your chin parallel the floor, and your eyes look ahead. Walk with practiced steps. The type of prowl that carries purpose in ambition trailheads and indecision sidewalks.
Let me explain; so far I’ve talked up my downfalls. I am, only human after all. Don’t mistake grace for weakness. tenderness for powerlessness. This ethereal compassion of mine is the pockets of matter making up my skeleton. Air matter that can re-shape mountains, tour guide tornadoes, and breeze-pluck an eyelash from your fingertip. This life force in my veins is more water than blood. I can quench the thirst of the loveless and lost, hydrate hope back into eyes of the forlorn. Show them tears are equal parts earthquake and revolution.
So if you must know one thing about me, Datura:
I will not be contained.
“Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.”
-Kahlil Gibran
FOOL.S.GOLD
10.11.20
We are as much our Dragons as we are our own Towers and Princesses.
On this particular day, I am the whore of Babylon sticking fingers in pussy pies. Imperia Cognati crushing pomegranate seeds against the roof of my mouth. That POP of juice, that squirt coating your tongue with sweetness. Or is it sourness? I couldn’t tell. I was busy screaming “FUCK THE POLICE!” while some white boy fucked me against a cop car.
And what a handsome specimen of protest.
DREAMS
10.10.20
And all the while, she’s been right there.
Looking down — no. Looking into and around me, sending Manta Ray breadcrumbs as if to wink symmetry in the stitches of coincidence.
MIRROR
9.10.20
You seem to jump from my fingers every time i try to put you down on paper
like waking up to eclipse or twilight,
not knowing if the dawn brings constellations or falling oceans.
I bet your mother feels the same way. Which reminds me, when was the last time you talked to her? You should call her.
I imagine she worries about you. And I don’t just mean your nail-polish and dresses. Although if we’re being frank, yellow is so not your color.
You’re more prism spectrum on a cloudy day. Fractal practicality reduced to humanization. Iridescent opaque. Parchment paper dipped in pastel. The aftermath of oil paint picking a fight with waterwheels.
I guess you could say I’m angry.
When you said I’d lost my madness; remember, when you chose to Pied Piper roaches, it was your sadness looking back at me. And yes, I’ll agree the hand dealt to people like us tightropes the unconventional, but we are still here. There are only two jokers in the deck.
Dear friend, I’ve climbed more than just magnolias since I saw you last. Take this as a lesson; only on my worst days I may call my soul Burden.
It’s time you stop calling yours Curse.