Arm your heart with empty
face pressed to face
love like the sewing of flesh
we are knit into becoming
and wear ourselves out of it
here
are my fingers these are
my teeth we
latch onto our undoing
this is my spirit
you can't see it she is
bigger than your eyes can see
she slows my pulse stops me
shivering, dilates
my eyes, wiggles
my ears always
fun at parties when she
wants to be
does not
fear death.
There are no words and
no actions for you from me.
All that I am says nothing for you now but
figure
it out
for yourself.
II.
The Cure For Happiness
The Deaths and the dying of loved ones
once hated
made plain
scraping the frost off the windows
with the heater going my
fingers like little slugs
No coffee is strong enough
to Wake us
I am pressed against the morning
like a tongue on a flagpole
half pulled back
not wanting and wanting
the wild agony I
wait hoping
the warmth of my very breath
is salvation
Love
(like mine for you) is what binds us to Being
blinds ties and fetters but what's more
is not merely the great source of our Happiness, but
the cure for.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Surgery in minor
I've had minor surgery. I don't have cancer.
I told a friend this and she said "yet" because it's true it's implied in this day and age, with my background, with the world itself being increasingly carcinogenic. I don't have cancer (yet). I said it was implied though, and needn't be articulated. It's like saying I'm not dead (yet). I plan on dying. I'll be very surprised if it doesn't happen. I'll have a lot of explaining to do.
Where to begin.
This surgery.
I've had a pea sized cyst in my nether regions for some time. I don't know that it's appropriate, dear internet, to be precise. Let's call the area in question the sandwich islands. The sandwich islands feel like they got stuck in a zipper today. I am on all kinds of pain killers, and still hate almost everything. But I don't have cancer. And some day soon, I will be able to ride a bike.
This pea in the sandwich islands has been a very mild concern for a couple of years now on account of it being misdiagnosed as a bartholin's cyst repeatedly, being buried from view, and really only bothering me or being apparent in any way when I went cycling. During my attempts at biking in the last couple years, I would find myself thinking quiet contemplative thoughts about the fairy tale "The Princess and the Pea," which I kept entirely to myself. When I came out from under anesthesia, my charming anesthesiologist popped in and asked me if I knew where I was. "A hospital. OHSU. Multnomah Pavillion." I said.
He laughed. "That is the most precise answer I have ever received." I said I didn't really remember what happened and asked if I said anything weird under anesthesia. "You had a dream about coffee, and you told us all the story of the Princess and the Pea." Well. Nice to know the demons of my subconscious were amiable enough to the gathering of visitors to the sandwich islands.
A friend came over to accompany me in my convalescence and offer what available comforts she could think of, which included painting my nails gold. They're flaking off now and the effect is something like an old wheel barrow. The opiates heighten the effect of being a disused tool. I forget suddenly what I was doing, concentrate on the pain for a moment and then forget I was doing that. I'm idly watching the time tick down in an auction for gold boat shoes I've bid on on ebay. Gold boat shoes. I'm barely real right now.
All the more awkward that I keep getting business phone calls in the bath. I don't seem able to articulate how completely incapable I am. I may be too well versed in transmitting my thoughts under intoxication to adequately express my incompetence. I am a wheel barrow right now. For some reason I have answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, um, I'm calling about having been over charged on my credit card. I'm sorry I thought I spoke to you earlier. I was under the impression this was a business phone."
"Oh it is." Realizing that the bath water can probably be heard in the background. "I will have a manager look over your account and return your call in the near future."
Must keep good notes regarding the conversations that occur, since they almost immediately disintegrate into the ether. Who was I talking to? Why did I answer my phone?
The sandwich islands are numb. My head throbs gently. My eyes are dilated. I have sudden rushes of unbridled creative ideas that pass like ships racing, rarely dropping into harbour.
If today were a prayer it would be a prayer to Persephone. Here in my red room with my red things, trolling the internet for red shoes, if I had a pomegranate I would forget not to eat it. The confusion and despair of a long winter. The earliest version of Persephone was a goddess without arms or legs emerging from the soil. If I could paint I would paint her, like Buttercup from The Princess Bride emerging from the sand, gasping for air and sputtering soil out of her mouth. Dear Persephone, in the minds of the dead and the unfathomable reality in which you are waiting out the winter in hell, I hope you are happy. I hope Pluto is an alright guy with a bad rap, and that you get to drink hot chocolate and don't know it's snowing outside. Princess this winter bullshit gets old sometimes.
Baby it's cold outside.
I told a friend this and she said "yet" because it's true it's implied in this day and age, with my background, with the world itself being increasingly carcinogenic. I don't have cancer (yet). I said it was implied though, and needn't be articulated. It's like saying I'm not dead (yet). I plan on dying. I'll be very surprised if it doesn't happen. I'll have a lot of explaining to do.
Where to begin.
This surgery.
I've had a pea sized cyst in my nether regions for some time. I don't know that it's appropriate, dear internet, to be precise. Let's call the area in question the sandwich islands. The sandwich islands feel like they got stuck in a zipper today. I am on all kinds of pain killers, and still hate almost everything. But I don't have cancer. And some day soon, I will be able to ride a bike.
This pea in the sandwich islands has been a very mild concern for a couple of years now on account of it being misdiagnosed as a bartholin's cyst repeatedly, being buried from view, and really only bothering me or being apparent in any way when I went cycling. During my attempts at biking in the last couple years, I would find myself thinking quiet contemplative thoughts about the fairy tale "The Princess and the Pea," which I kept entirely to myself. When I came out from under anesthesia, my charming anesthesiologist popped in and asked me if I knew where I was. "A hospital. OHSU. Multnomah Pavillion." I said.
He laughed. "That is the most precise answer I have ever received." I said I didn't really remember what happened and asked if I said anything weird under anesthesia. "You had a dream about coffee, and you told us all the story of the Princess and the Pea." Well. Nice to know the demons of my subconscious were amiable enough to the gathering of visitors to the sandwich islands.
A friend came over to accompany me in my convalescence and offer what available comforts she could think of, which included painting my nails gold. They're flaking off now and the effect is something like an old wheel barrow. The opiates heighten the effect of being a disused tool. I forget suddenly what I was doing, concentrate on the pain for a moment and then forget I was doing that. I'm idly watching the time tick down in an auction for gold boat shoes I've bid on on ebay. Gold boat shoes. I'm barely real right now.
All the more awkward that I keep getting business phone calls in the bath. I don't seem able to articulate how completely incapable I am. I may be too well versed in transmitting my thoughts under intoxication to adequately express my incompetence. I am a wheel barrow right now. For some reason I have answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, um, I'm calling about having been over charged on my credit card. I'm sorry I thought I spoke to you earlier. I was under the impression this was a business phone."
"Oh it is." Realizing that the bath water can probably be heard in the background. "I will have a manager look over your account and return your call in the near future."
Must keep good notes regarding the conversations that occur, since they almost immediately disintegrate into the ether. Who was I talking to? Why did I answer my phone?
The sandwich islands are numb. My head throbs gently. My eyes are dilated. I have sudden rushes of unbridled creative ideas that pass like ships racing, rarely dropping into harbour.
If today were a prayer it would be a prayer to Persephone. Here in my red room with my red things, trolling the internet for red shoes, if I had a pomegranate I would forget not to eat it. The confusion and despair of a long winter. The earliest version of Persephone was a goddess without arms or legs emerging from the soil. If I could paint I would paint her, like Buttercup from The Princess Bride emerging from the sand, gasping for air and sputtering soil out of her mouth. Dear Persephone, in the minds of the dead and the unfathomable reality in which you are waiting out the winter in hell, I hope you are happy. I hope Pluto is an alright guy with a bad rap, and that you get to drink hot chocolate and don't know it's snowing outside. Princess this winter bullshit gets old sometimes.
Baby it's cold outside.
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