Tuesday, September 22, 2020

Things Somehow Soften

Aside the barn rain and runoff build a gully up and down which I tread to feed the chickens.

A night beneath a waxing moon in which I could not walk all the way to the violets. 

One destroys things, reconstructs them - loves, addictions, skillsets. 

Paint jobs, hand jobs, blow jobs, odd jobs.

As a child I was often faced with evil, or with that which could not be explained any other way, and thus this tendency to equate God with understanding, and understanding with healing, and healing with love.

Living in you loving us but also, letting go of us for you.

Refusing to be denied as a means of survival which - valid in its way, in the context in which it arose - is later invalidated because of how much pain it forces on others.

Handfuls of popcorn becoming mouthfuls of popcorn becoming bellyfuls of popcorn.

The ways she has accepted my semen - correlated it to what matters in our living - and ways in which she has not.

Somebody moved the church steeple in the night or am I in another world? Am I fundamentally another?

Ways in which two sentences are hardly sufficient, ways in which nothing else could ever be, ever again.

You are uncertain in blue, comfortable in purple, but you know yourself in black. I forget sometimes you are a woman.

How after the salt of us things somehow soften, somehow grow. 

Slips of the tongue.

One notices how what they are noticing is their own self. 

Entranced, enchanted. Anesthetized.

Prized, which evokes appraisal, which evokes property and comparison, those terrible fucking lies.

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