(no subject)
scrape away my humanity with steel wool gamelan shringing tone, she, coyotl, is hurt, she is hurt in the desert and she will not be quiet. I am all quiet nosferatu clinging to boardrooms and staring at the wall, I was born of this affluence, the reign of whiteboard white, the boredom of white, untainted faces. the desert is dirty, stay inside, outside ugly. I am broken tin man steel rock mountain man, white wisebeard wizard wandering the wood when I occasion myself from my tower into mountainous history, amongst pixies made of fluid flames. there far from this, far from this bowl of rotting coffee streams on stinking pavement. I want to be off of this reality, this slate of business, this van filled with paper statements: "you are not actualized." it's easy, it's whispered around corners by sarcastic old flappers who steal cars and trees, it's evident in smiling flowers in those terrifying woods. they are so far out there, away from the shrill night, away from this concrete fate has smattered me and my vestements upon, flat slab under foreboding sky, and everything. yet here and there isn't it, it is he and she, beyond setting. these souls without boundary, without birth, swimming in the same starlight. out there this distance is nothing. we will never be out there, and you are not here, nothing is out there, nothing is here. yet nothing is true, so I touch the meaningless ground and think of its sacred adjacency - molecule upon molecule until I touch everything else by proxy. I touch you but I never feel it, yet I do as subtle as air, amorphous like we forget the solid ground when we think, when we feel, when we encyst ourselves in memory. but I cannot forget how we are fissioned. despondent.