10:54

I do not have time to feel to let my fingers gain moisture, to close my eyes and open them to something I have created which is my only comfort as I live in my insanity, the back breaking madness of my fucking mind that pushes me to the corners of what I consider to be reality and forces me to create words and images that are so awful, so thick and fat with terror that I do not know who could love them or bear to touch the person whose skin they fell out of.


Last night in my sleep I told a German man of how to recognize ghosts. I said that you will feel them slide across torso and every hair on your body will move, especially the ones on the lower back. I said that you have to speak to the air, ask what is there, and try not to be terrified.


I have so many more dreams, most made of love, that I do not remember because I give myself to meaningless tasks and my laziness. I give myself to fear which is in every cell of my body like DNA and memories and the semen of men who lived thousands of years ago in some cold land of Eastern Europe and I wonder if they cared for the women they were inside of, if they liked animals, if there was some beauty in the ceaseless snow.


I said to my lovers Hey, let's go get a drink and we barely eat so after a the gin cleans out our cavities we are laughing at the chilled May sun and the loud blue jays and I tell them I can't breathe because of the claustrophobia of the mountains, that my heart is turning blue, and they laugh and touch my skin and I wonder what has happened to real romance, to the soul-song dance of communication between the emotion of the given people that kiss not only from the genetic desire but because there might be a piece of poetry to be shed as summer comes and the orgasm of my words and clitoris are not for my pleasure alone, but because I think I have found something so beautiful that it will give you a reason to stay alive.



How do you dissolve fear, like fur in acid? How do you experience true intimacy?


I hate that what I work for and love most has been learned and did not come from my lips as naturally as a crying and vomit. I took all of the words in, digested them with milk, created something already known but smelling of my thighs and fingerprints. I like to think that if I never touched my mother like those great beautiful children who lived in forests with their furred siblings and matted hair that all of the words would still exist in the voice that had never been touched by language, born deep in the body, lower than the bones, in the true, quiet dark. I read a story about an abused child who could not communicate but when she heard classical music she stood still, full with the experience of real emotion. 


Syllables are the piano pieces of my soul.


Chilly, Mohammed-May sun.