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playwright /
Dear, / - Subscribe
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All that sound underneath you has got to be so heavy. Who holds it up must have red and scratched hands. An underearth God full of red sweat. I watched a moth die, it was white as noise. I imagined a cloak made of milk jewels. It was following you into the mirth, but there was no one inside it. When it realized it was floating, all the crinkled bag laughter stopped, as if washed away in the silk of tide waves. I wonder if the moth was lost, I think it was scared. You wake up with your face close to the dirt and the mud. You have dry leaves in your hair the color of life and sun flooding your eyes with silver flecks. It rises up over the world and falls straight into you, but you're like a mirror, it makes you almost heaven, like I could almost reach through you but if I only had more faith. You are whatever animal you choose to be, today. Maybe a happy bear, or just contented, maybe something that lives in the sea. I would want to be a bumblebee, today. I often am wondering, what is it like to make love upon a flower? (And I knew that it was lovely to have a Black Bear thinkin' of me... ) |
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playwright /
Essential things / August 23, 2006; 7:33 AM - Subscribe
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The part. You always say, I would give my right arm for, I would give my life for. I would slice my hands clean off if I saw. I would slit my throat if I knew. If you broke my heart. If you broke my mind. If you tore out my soul, I would hope to die. I would hope that my body would just disappear. And parcel. You keep a little to yourself. Your gifts and offerings hang on strings in the air, all floating baubles bobbling and twinkling, all starry. You say, This is enough. You think, Is this enough. Is it enough for you? You wish you could give, more, even though you're holding it all in. Hypocrit, cursing and praising yourself all the time, pacing back and forth wondering how to do two things at once. Is that selfish or lost? You try to make it enough. You think hard, and you give the most of you. All the musing is a shiny tear in a tiny bowl. You could stare for hours at yourself, trying to figure it out, trying to solve the mystery, but then you'd be accused of vanity. You could stare into the television pixels, you could discover puzzles and harmonies hidden in everyday noise, but then you'd be accused of lunacy. You could sit on the edge of everything and comtemplate for hours on end, staring out as if from behind a plate of glass, but oh, that's so awful lonely. |