10:53

I have had to live with all of the time and experience of this past week inside of me and now my body is swollen; I touch my skin and water moves through the organic fabric and it stays over the muscle like damp paper, my tattoos stretching into bruises. My ears feel clouded with fluid but I hear every sound. I am inside-out. I recognize everything.

I continue to drink, cups next to my bed, green glass bottles all over my bedroom floor and I have to walk on them, my arms outstretched, balancing as they roll and shatter, pieces of whatever is left over stuck in my feet and the marks on my thighs. I have kaleidoscope soles now and when I sit in the sun I can stretch my arches and toes and compare the color of shrapnel (some are clear, others opaque from the bridges of cell growth), which is like reading the future and the past together, as if I had gone back to create my own life.

I map my face in the same manner, the lines around the cheekbones from starvation, the scars on my chin from an empty stomach. I have tried to pull of the expressions, but they are attached to the nerves and my body rejected different cartilage, even the black and peach powders, which rolled off of my soft jaw with the liquid that was already gathering inside of me before I knew what it was, blaming my river-body on the heat and sweat. I can feel the bacteria in my abdomen and the beginnings of bones. Only my lips stay static because they have remembered you, even if we have just met.

I have more to give you but the water is still leaking out of the source into my chest, its own mouth like a cervix, dumping out mucous and blood. I am horrified to see myself cut open and only find organs and a spine as I know the worlds in my capillaries, the cocoons that look like marrow, the foxes that crawl out of my liver, the apples and sugar and genderless criminals hanging from my neck. There is a surface with the microscopic, fertilized egg sharing its space that can create life or rupture a fallopian tube.

I want to write prayers to emotion, because that must be what exists once the limbs decompose, and in my mind gravity and mathematics and animals and heaven are made of the matter of feeling, the force behind full connection.

3:15

A psychic once asked me what I was fighting against, and I could not really answer her with honesty, but I gave her some part-truth and she accepted it while blinking her eyes. I realized today (which is the past, which feels like early-fall) that I am trying to tear away from myself, from my limbs, which feel too fleshy for what is inside, which I know is more than tendons and blood -- blood, which should have a powerful plural as it can come out of my skin and eyes, and I see its blue-purple shine in my veins that are thinner than my own fingers, and perhaps yours (I do not know as you have not touched me). All of the things I have called hell are inside of me, wanting my attention. I may never have children but I am already a parent to those images and if I ignore them, they come to me while I am sleeping, like infants, and I give them space. I can be gentle to evil because I sometimes feel that all of human loneliness is radiation from god's abandonment of the angels.

I tried to read William Blake yesterday morning but he gives me too much space and the sexual texture of his work is like speaking to god when you cum, but without the physical expression I shook until I thought about him/her. I do not understand why drugs are necessary when there are organs close to your palms which have a natural direction towards un-reality, a communion to the outside of yourself where you can connect to the very ancient of our species, which is the same as writing your name on the water.

I am not feeling much because I am full of practicality, scared to know what I am and why Rabia cried. I want to cover my head and go to Japan and have books of my own work and the work of others on my arms and legs and coming through my eyes and sometimes my mouth (although only my truth should fill my lips when they thin with age) but I know the need for a straight mind so I wear simple diamonds and sapphires--part of the poetry of earth--instead of the spines of deer.



I need to rest again and pour water into my body and over my head until there is not another sound and I notice myself.