Sunday morning, 7 a.m. Little men, big guns, coming to take us away...
There have been numerous studies done, showing that
babies who are not physically touched
on a regular basis
will develop 'failure to thrive' syndrome.
Likewise, with me - sometimes it creeps up
just behind my neck, and i wonder how long it will
continue like this: the masochist i am says nothing but
'bring it on, motherfucker,' and so the Wait continues.
i think of what he must be feeling as your hands
clench his back, of what your skin must feel like
pressed against his abdomen - funniest thing, i think
nothing of the SEX part of it, and don't even get the
slightest bit horny at the sounds you are making.
it is as if that part of my body is turned off, dead and gone -
the last time i had sex, a man in Belize raped me.
[try THAT one on, like an old, musty sweater...
every day], and so we let it stay that way:
i touch no one and no one touches me.
And yet, the Calm [like a bomb] is pervasive -
all my energies have gone into heart-chakra internal
countdown, and then you go at it again, my head wanting
nothing but Silence. i wonder what it feels like...
But when you hugged me - yes, and so THAT will keep me
going, for all eternity now, until it may happen again.
i go outside, stand barefoot in the dirt, and look up
at the stars. Reading weather patterns and storms,
stoking fires with an inherent alacrity whose
riddim has been buried within my bones for
thousands of years. i peel back the pages of
fluorescent lighting, of liquor store cash registers,
gas station pumps and free-flowing everything -
and can only stand open-mouthed in horrour.
This won't be any more apocalyptic rantings,
because you KNOW [but i can only sift sand through my fingers,
looking out at the ocean, kept forever in my heart,
and mouth the words, 'he who feels it knows it, Lord'
and bite my bottom lip, waiting for those who KNOW it.
They will rise up on wings of eagles, and we're not from this planet,
we come from somewhere else, but you can't understand it,
cuz you don't know yourself. but when the Time is right,
our paths will be unveiled; 'til then, you seek your life,
while i sit and bite my nails...
While i was walking down Coxe Avenue in Asheville,
a single word came into my head:
Benares.
Knowing it was a place, but not where:
audible, clear as day, and i would have turned around
to see if it came from someone behind me, but i had
my headphones in anyways. That evening, went to the library
to Wikipedia this place, this word.
It is also called Varanasi, and is considered the most holy
city in India by the Hindus: if you die
in Benares, you will receive a one-way ticket straight to
nibbana [nirvana]. the photos in National Geographic, of people
sending their dead out on burning funeral pyres on the Ganges,
that is in Varanasi. i am going to go there, because i must
[what a strange word to have pop into one's head] -
not to die, but to be reborn.
i read a book by Barbara Kingsolver last week,
the long and short of it being that a man is falsely accused
[or perhaps not] of being a Communist during the Red Scare,
and he faces execution, perhaps. Goes to Mexico, stages his
own suicide, and goes and hides out with his very good friend,
Frida Kahlo. She sends a letter, years later, to the
man's former secretary and best friend, saying:
Your American friend is dead.
Someone else is here now...
So it shall be with me, minus the 'suicide' [not yet...] -
like all else, the book jumped off the shelf into my hands,
if only for those lines, for that concept.
Too 'insane' to live in this world any longer,
and sleep does not take care of more than 1/3 of a life.
To wake up in a different reality:
Your American friend is dead.
babies who are not physically touched
on a regular basis
will develop 'failure to thrive' syndrome.
Likewise, with me - sometimes it creeps up
just behind my neck, and i wonder how long it will
continue like this: the masochist i am says nothing but
'bring it on, motherfucker,' and so the Wait continues.
i think of what he must be feeling as your hands
clench his back, of what your skin must feel like
pressed against his abdomen - funniest thing, i think
nothing of the SEX part of it, and don't even get the
slightest bit horny at the sounds you are making.
it is as if that part of my body is turned off, dead and gone -
the last time i had sex, a man in Belize raped me.
[try THAT one on, like an old, musty sweater...
every day], and so we let it stay that way:
i touch no one and no one touches me.
And yet, the Calm [like a bomb] is pervasive -
all my energies have gone into heart-chakra internal
countdown, and then you go at it again, my head wanting
nothing but Silence. i wonder what it feels like...
But when you hugged me - yes, and so THAT will keep me
going, for all eternity now, until it may happen again.
i go outside, stand barefoot in the dirt, and look up
at the stars. Reading weather patterns and storms,
stoking fires with an inherent alacrity whose
riddim has been buried within my bones for
thousands of years. i peel back the pages of
fluorescent lighting, of liquor store cash registers,
gas station pumps and free-flowing everything -
and can only stand open-mouthed in horrour.
This won't be any more apocalyptic rantings,
because you KNOW [but i can only sift sand through my fingers,
looking out at the ocean, kept forever in my heart,
and mouth the words, 'he who feels it knows it, Lord'
and bite my bottom lip, waiting for those who KNOW it.
They will rise up on wings of eagles, and we're not from this planet,
we come from somewhere else, but you can't understand it,
cuz you don't know yourself. but when the Time is right,
our paths will be unveiled; 'til then, you seek your life,
while i sit and bite my nails...
While i was walking down Coxe Avenue in Asheville,
a single word came into my head:
Benares.
Knowing it was a place, but not where:
audible, clear as day, and i would have turned around
to see if it came from someone behind me, but i had
my headphones in anyways. That evening, went to the library
to Wikipedia this place, this word.
It is also called Varanasi, and is considered the most holy
city in India by the Hindus: if you die
in Benares, you will receive a one-way ticket straight to
nibbana [nirvana]. the photos in National Geographic, of people
sending their dead out on burning funeral pyres on the Ganges,
that is in Varanasi. i am going to go there, because i must
[what a strange word to have pop into one's head] -
not to die, but to be reborn.
i read a book by Barbara Kingsolver last week,
the long and short of it being that a man is falsely accused
[or perhaps not] of being a Communist during the Red Scare,
and he faces execution, perhaps. Goes to Mexico, stages his
own suicide, and goes and hides out with his very good friend,
Frida Kahlo. She sends a letter, years later, to the
man's former secretary and best friend, saying:
Your American friend is dead.
Someone else is here now...
So it shall be with me, minus the 'suicide' [not yet...] -
like all else, the book jumped off the shelf into my hands,
if only for those lines, for that concept.
Too 'insane' to live in this world any longer,
and sleep does not take care of more than 1/3 of a life.
To wake up in a different reality:
Your American friend is dead.