09 May 2012

Pairings


I started writing with no purpose and it got me no where. i enter into my practice with an intention, but without a map and sometimes it gets me lost and pleasantly so. I could use some guidance, I am sure of it, but for now all I can do is listen to my soul and it tells me I am on the verge of a life changing experience--cliche as it may sound, I heard it speak sitting at the edge of the woods where we climb to the King and Queen seat, Susquehannock outcrop jutting over Deer Creek, seeking nature's mind of kindred spirit to the raccoon critters dancing jitters up my naked spine.  When I whine, it does nothing but make me more bitter, when I smile, I feel my insides relax and soften, my soul settle like the open sea I imagine it would be lying post-coitally on the horizon, sun sinking basket into open arms, Poseidon's garden hyperbolically stationed on the precipice of my own existence, my inability to reach the door, rolling dead bug on my back on the floor, Kafkan nightmare of seventh grade English class.  Teachers like this are the reason kids hate school, being told there is a right and wrong with regard to literature, the richer I get, the more I think I was better off poor, for then I am at my kindest, more compassionate vision of reality, whatever that may be.  I'm straying too much into the metaphysical and my audience has already stopped reading, now I am free to speak easily, meandering the dark channels of my upside down clown face, charted vessels bound for Nederland wooden bars, bluegrass Kentucky bands charming hunters and hippies alike--I cannot tell him it is wrong to kill, but for the thrill of his reaction, I tempt it anyway, alluding to some mattered connection between living things and he laughs at my impracticality, his family has to eat after all and we are not getting any smarter but standing here gawking at ourselves, our reflection in the dark glass windows, we can't see past ourselves to the mountains growing like waves outside, Rocky mothers breast feeding baby and carburetor, pissing on the radiator to cool it off, pulled over at the shoulder pass, dropping Earth wings on windshield, humping the gear shift as if it were animate, moaning uncontrollably--put that bitch's face in a pillow.  The steam on the window and a cop flashlight tapping asking ma'am is everything alright and when he sees it is consensual, we are both arrested for indecent exposure and over indulgence of the lustful tones of wonderment, staring at the moon through the cruiser window, winding down the spiral staircase to 7-11 where he stops for coffee and being caffeinated, lets us go out of sheer compassion but lets us hike the 18 miles back to our vehicle, shaking lonely from our abandonment, post-traumatic bucket sense of glass jars re-aligned obsessive compulsively in the cabinets, again, measuring half an inch exactly between each rim, every grip on the counter's edge leaving sweat hand prints and microscopic mildew remnants of being held captive in a desert womb.

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