(no subject)
i stopped sleeping somewhere, you know? clay. today there was clay in a class and my hands got so muddy and i wanted to rub it into my face and my chest and my fingernails and my thighs. someone said something, and all my pots didn't turn out. i can't pinch a pot but i can fuck like a canyon. the clay reminds me of what i come from. it reminds me of what there was before greed. before people lived in space and had electronic books instead of real ones. and you think this is happy. i did yoga and found my core and somewhere forgot everything except breath. mostly i forgot breath too and remembered my pelvis. my hips. they move and i bend and then down, down, and then up, tree pose. and there's a boy and my feet are in his way so i move, because i'm tall. i'm tall and i'm tall and is this still winter, i guess it is? it's winter. i have a bird. i can't figure out what to rename her. she sits on things and she pecks my hair because it's blue and she knows. she says things. what day is this? i haven't tasted those plums in so long. my body craves another body in ways you say are like a creature. i say, we are creatures. and my hands, my back, the hair in my armpits, it longs. it makes these songs and it sings them. the navel draws back toward the spine when you exhale.
maybe, maybe we'd write maps on our skin. maybe i'd get the directions right. maybe i wouldn't get us lost. would you trust that? can you? i think trust is what they spun your hair out of when you were born, maybe. then they weaved your blankets. and you've been blue lately.
when i touch the words made without paper that you write, there is a world that opens. it holds and touches things in a way that is a secret only the snow can really know. and i re-read those words to make sure they say what i think they say. and i missed you, somehow. in the middle of this or that. the middle of being absent. disappearing machine bird. you came with me to my time machine. i wiped tears from a face i don't know, and i found the letter "e" and it's almost one in the morning on a day i didn't really sleep and
here. touch there.
maybe, maybe we'd write maps on our skin. maybe i'd get the directions right. maybe i wouldn't get us lost. would you trust that? can you? i think trust is what they spun your hair out of when you were born, maybe. then they weaved your blankets. and you've been blue lately.
when i touch the words made without paper that you write, there is a world that opens. it holds and touches things in a way that is a secret only the snow can really know. and i re-read those words to make sure they say what i think they say. and i missed you, somehow. in the middle of this or that. the middle of being absent. disappearing machine bird. you came with me to my time machine. i wiped tears from a face i don't know, and i found the letter "e" and it's almost one in the morning on a day i didn't really sleep and
here. touch there.