journey to the moonstone

from, the battle we didn't choose. the ritual life to the empty bed. i have loved this collection of photographs. enough to share on the body of my mind.

http://mywifesfightwithbreastcancer.com/

Jennifer, RIP

about #2 tiles

what the purpose of repetition and acknowledgment of a soul geography is, you fear to imagine. this constant imbalance. this gastronomic swivel of logic and the sensitive. be tough young soul is all you hear, growing up. be resilient and move forward. there is a purported theatricality to the crescent victor of the emotional poly-hue. a plastic bravery, in cloaks of the social swing. Shakespearean and literary, the facetious doll, redeems the fullness of the life unlived. in preparation, in discordance, and in constancy of what begets, the life of dreams and shadow cues. fulfilled in the resilience of the behemoth, in the philosophy of the poly-phile, a mobile sentiment in a social web, in a network of the evolved commodity, a mechanism, a clockwork, a poly-maze stereophone of the unconscious, you are to fight in life. to recount the dream of existence. to add purpose and civility, and story-tell. and narrate your narrative. catalytic, for the gratitude of posterity.

but how many people encourage you to weep out loud? to admit, openly, that there is a lingering insecurity. a feeling of fear about the self -as if you don't know you. that you are not ready and unavailable, emotionally. without reinforcement of your capabilities, how do you know that you compare to the rest of the millions? in the physiognomy and physicality, beyond a point, wouldn't you feel unheeded? why would you internalize in polyps the love of man? and woman? and hide behind the ashes, the trilogy of love songs? and mold to sell your personality, because our destiny and art works revise the happy stories? there are moments when you break. you mind whirring, your body sweating, your eyes blazing, you just want to scream to the air, as loud as you can. as shrill as you may. as an allegory of your internal reality. of the confusion, the subjugation, the repression of your dream cadence. the oppression of your meta-self, believing in the poetry of the artifacts, the remnants of a positive entropy; the dynamics of the conqueror and the idealist, creased and hemmed in seams of a dye palette, a gold sonnet of the suppositions. a lot of the time, you dwell on the power of self. why do i belong to the other half, the other self? have i evolved to care for you, despite this struggle for natural existence? how does it feel to be the only lone, vying to live and dying in regrets. no one loved me. i lied and fabricated my romance, to belong, essentially. because of the notion of the craft, of the expectation. with age, if you didn't find, did you lose the battle at a point? and you lost the battle because you never experienced the duplicity, or the duality of decision-making, a hand to hold, story unfolds in bits and pieces of the solitary vogue pejorative. it is my goal to say to you, if you feel a sense of loss, an unreal self, a paper luck, someone possibly feels the same disappointment. in another world, in another word, in another construction of the self.

you may kiss the fragrance of the garden lilies, tongue tied and spaceless. and choke on the parure of tear pearls and hymns, but think of your life. a sail, a fresh. in a world you are not alone.

to right the love

to believe. one day you will love with laws, your fellow mate. your fellow soul. and bounce over the chill grapple of an aging, dying definition of what it is to marry. if you throw the spate of the 'traditional', the 'god intent', i wish we never speak again. the undying love on one hand, you preach, and yet restrict. shameful. and re-learn your morality. for everyone, every soul has the right, the prerogative, the power to love, and lust, despite the sloppiness of your recognizability.

not because i wish to politicize, but because i wish to make you think. think of a time you fell in love. so hard, so fast, so deep, that you smiled with constancy, wishing and cheering on the palate of dreams. to hold your souls, to sing and swim, to dance and kiss, with stars and wind, and magnolia blooms. reading poetry to another, in the phenomenal hand-written calligraphics. and then they snipped away your only flame, in the demonstrations of the legal prejudice. i hate them. i hate them with a passion i cannot describe -those absolute bigots and chasm-creationists of the right to love, the right to wed. and yes today, for the blind family, how do you act in such hypocrisy on the basis of a bio-hazard, supposed, that you create?

red heart. and in the symbolism of the protest. i, the reactionary, intend to learn. we right to right to sing in praise of the confectionery. of the saccharine intent of emotions, love, and matrimony, if so please. why marriage is the ultimatum, i will not fathom. but to revolt and rebel the right, the people of birth, you make me smile. and for the conservative, i have no tolerance for your stifling prejudice of coarse mishandling of human emotionality. let us move on, and learn to wed, as people. hopefully, with the legality.

to you, mr x

for your patience, mr x, i thank you. for your celebrity profile, your stardom, your weird simplicity to pursue and follow an interest, it is no easy feat. drinking, night after night, in the olive tavern, tipsy and confused, shy yet raucous, boisterous and pensive, in the chiffon of your intelligent industry, we have known, gotten closer, loved and hated. flirted and danced, eyed and smiled, dolled up, feigned ignorance, faked business, spun a reel of lies and quasi-truths, in the tavern on jane street. a quaint remembrance of the beatrice inn, i wasn't there. i never saw. you never slept. but you said those were the days of bliss. in the Bea, it was a soul phenomenon.

but the Bea is gone, and you have returned to the mundane of your storytelling, and stock broking. unhappy sometimes, stylized sometimes. you fuck drags now, with green hair and purple tongues. you want to talk about success, sometimes. the definition. the Americanism attached. the yardstick of the dollar, irrespective of the knowledge base, the data base, the idyllic. when did this equation flip switch into a materialistic outcome? a generous shrug to the quest for human purpose, but now you trade. and only care for those who queer in banks. to have come from a farm, i wanted gold, you said. gold, to prove to your kin and kind, the value of your potential, not your intellect. you refrained, you feared, frightened and nervous. i remember meeting first, your hands shaking, soul trembling, words escaping your shoddy shields. you said to me, i don't think i'll make it here. it's a psychic nostalgia of the familiar. your family mattered, despite the abuse, the peril, the dissolution and the dissipation. breaking ways, and parting souls. your hopes that died with inhumation of a love triangle. to disease your fallback, i'm sure it hurt. when you were alone, in the solitary insular. you may have cried, and charred in your discomfort. embarrassed to admit, i am alone. i didn't make it. yet, is key. but how long? for many months, ride your struggles. i have told you, time to time, push yourself to the breaking point. feel the fissure of the deep chasmic soul separatist. to dissolve in your blood humor and admit to yourself the melody of a reconstruction. who said it was easy? believe in no ultimata that comes from your reconaissance. to urge the belief in the theatricality and non-actuality of the characters in your life. yours, and yours alone.

look at birth. you came alone, festooning humanity through the singularity of your presence. yet delivered into a trove of the socialized animal. you grow in the neighborhood of the human, and non-actuaries. woebegone camaraderie and irresistible hate-mongers. casting and remolding, curling and enchanting, pacing and fleeting, groping and heaving, delving, scrutinizing, burrowing and digging, deeper and deeper and deeper into the depth of depths of what does it mean to be me? in the roots of this depth, which branch is of the superior? the maternity, the sexuality, the identity, the existentialism? what it is to become the man or woman of soul-commerce, of self-trade, of self-value. what is the value of yourself mr x? what is the value of your experience and nomenclature that your social cage refused to provide. do you regret, this calligraphy of the Bea? the metonymy of your life today -mr x, the town man, is the successful of sorts? a self-success, i ask. not the one that permeates, oozes, and exudes from the architecture of your brownstone. not the success that brings you the disability of macrocosmic impecuniosity, or for that matter, a charisma of the braggart. the success, that you made. at the Bea, by the move. by the hinge and the thrust of your soul-searching dissatisfaction. you bit your tongue, and cloaked your fears, caressed your nerves, and held your head, shaved your disappointments to recognize the singularity in death, a fatalistic simulacrum of your self-other multi-collage. this verbal banter is not to decide, but to oust. to try the test of a new provenance. to run away from your rooted presence, to lift your legs into a vicious unknown, to distort your satiety cage of the familiar, welled in fear, in angst and verve, in trepidation and love, in hesitation and pleas, and dive into the depth of me. to re-begin an I.

ex

they will hang. in bell jars. and gas gauze. and disbelief of the god recluse. a humanism of the song festivals. and chandeliers of wax lilies. you killed the republicanism, the ideologue. and saved humanity of the curse of the orthodox. folding to the gays, your orthodoxy. go hang your soul.

self creation academe #5

piece by piece. from hand to arm to the philosophy of the lesbians. i created you. gave birth to a pageant and roiling toiling farm limbs of your water crest hyacinths. in the image of the transgendered. in the image of the mirror fluids. in the shadow of the water vessels. your hair in flames. your eyes in gaze. your limbs in wax. in a moral cluster of your persona. in a paradox of the barren decidua. at triple points of your raucous belligerence. in a garland of hormones and blood splattering, moon watering, hair curling imagery. you stood by the chimney top. your bare english. your vinyl hat from the ‘70s. your perishing musculature. your drooping shoulders. the burden of a chromosome death. your disability to squeal at the threshold of pain. prodding your ribs, crushing and gnarling and peering into the pheromones of the dandelions. the erection of your brain monuments. in folds, in gyrations, canoodling in syncopation with the feline moth shadows. and your pyramid of lust, post surgical behaviorisms. you are the anatomy of a dead dream. never born, yet shaped in place with imaginations of the little ones. to produce a reproductive machinery of the mechanic by the stall. the stalwart of diuretics, you piss on your shadow. in dissatisfaction. and trepidation of misfortune. this is me. this is i. lost and found in paradox.

to introduce myself. this is the sexual, unbridled. phagocyte. like hallucinations on the bare psychotic carousel. fake monogamy of the cold misogynist. the bigot and racist. the occlusion of emotion, swelling and welling in the pathology of my prematurity. the pre-partum dissatisfactions and comforts within the womb soil, manifest in the general rebelliousness of my tinkering venules. to request my discomfort, this naturalness of the nebulous. fleeting and tumbling, and crooning inside. mary jane, come play with me. swoosh away your dance of clouds. the wiring dams and bricks and chains and tops and cues of the identity plagiarist. once the truth, once the lie. the white bedazzlement of desire. i want to be another me. dissatisfied with the presence of my churlish demeanor. the origin of which, unfounded and miscalculated. i do not know. i cannot tell. it makes me old, with time and days. with seconds of clocks. to re-begin is my new discovery.