On Time
A short while ago, I mentioned that I would potentially send an additional newsletter this month breaking form and sharing some personal writing. While this makes me feel incredibly vulnerable, there are other projects in the works which make this feel necessary. Occasionally certain experiences can only be shared in a different format, one which enables the exit of our typical analytical thoughtpattern. Poetry is one such tool, though anyone literary would scoff at the included snippets as being "poetry", it hardly matters. The aim, and what I'm being called to do, is to initiate those who wish to be initiated into a different mode of considering, perhaps even of being, though obviously no newsletter would accomplish this. While these momentary pieces of writing will not do this, they are a beginning, maybe a kind of test, maybe an initiation. You decide.
Separate segments will be separated with dividers, and no further context will be given. This is perhaps all I have to offer this week, with something more to come very soon which, for those of you who will be ready to receive it, will be more illuminating.
tonight I am about three steps from schizophrenic dreams and razor breath
all time too often collapses in on itself in ny head
and sometimes it's too much
but tonight it's just enough.
tonight I am hesitant and fragile tired mania and I see everything fron here:
wooded backyards
and cotton candy skies
"mira, blanca" and big brown eyes
70's cars and anxious sweat
picnic tables and bated breath
my dreams remember each other and I remember them
a white bellied hawk comes to tell me what's next in a waiting language I can't understand and it is all one thing
happening over and over and over again
Nothing but desert sweat and drought
Revelations on the verge of psychosis, mania, psychoanalysis, collective, ancient, primeval, oozing unconsciousness.
Sweat and gaping roads, the smell of human waste and uninhabitable wasteland and bodies
fecal matter fecundity
and indignity
and indignation
and ground up glass underfoot
smashed windows revealing plastic blind eyelids
battered and falling and voices hissing as you pass
neon lights
and everyone taking pictures for contrived psychotic unreality
a minority of one
and total, gone, bloody, sweaty, raging, madness
Dreams of rivers and floods
and things yet to come
Heat seeps in and stays
in these plyboard walls
a maze
he said "the birds are gone to escape a biblical fate and this plague"
and it's all in our heads
"the world ends, but when"
and everything happens over and over and over again