Every day I wake up and strike a match, light a candle and I spread charcoal on the page.
My father's mother's well ancestors guide has me spit on the page at least three times.
My mother's mother's well ancestors guide says to sprinkle flour on the spit. I sometimes use the flame to create smoky burn marks.
My father's father's well ancestors guide has me spread the soil, clay slip on the page.
My mother's father's well ancestor directs me to sew red thread into the page.
I turn the page and write.
Dangerous dear, dear dangerous, how I wrap my hands around your sharp edges and explosive teeth. You can make a meal of me, grinding me down to this earth, left furiously in the remaining dust. Oh dear, wanting to be someone, wanting to turn the tides of war and indifference into an ocean of caressing kindness. Waves lap on that which doubts and hangs tentatively in the belly. Fear is breath removed, the desire to stop speech before the lion breaks out of the cage. Expulsion and humiliation are so tasty as blood gushes out so that there is only that sense of ever diminishing life. Thank you dear clay jewel and precious fire and saliva fermenting on our tongues through these threads of time.
How does the world make itself? Universe spark, retraction, spit, clowns, catastrophe, edible life eating itself? Insurance brokers, food shoots, license plates? Under the sea lobsters laugh fervently outside their onion skin thoughts. Peeling away our edifices: countries brands and deities. We slide down the volcanic ash as young ones fly in tornado flavored ice cream cups. Unwrapping the packages, conforming to the revolutions, posting the memes and chattering. Looking for friends in this construction, feeding the ever engorging mouths of the auto erecting, cooped up weakness of the deep vacuum that only finds little rocks inside. Clearly strength is engorging, moving, being a god that is emblazened on our socks. Oh earth, fire, spit, flour sewed in everywhere. I celebrate true light and ground here.
Dear conviction, dear doubt, you two hold my universe together, so strong and oriented. One of you is needy for reassurance, tender and fearful. The other one is a form to be made, and there’s only that. A license to hold is a component of human frailty, threads of steel and little mermaids of feel. Can’t we find a little peace? Pendulums turn and fall on their face make no space for terror or grace. Somewhere the witness twirls their thumbs, Combs their hair into fine-tune bums. A cause is a call, a beacon to pretend to not fall. And inertia is searcher for lost is a purse of golden dust coughed up in a huff. Oh lost ones your story is the same nothing for either of you, no one to blame.
This rotting plane is a place of decomposition, a place for worms to sing and bathrobes to unveil. A seeking for comfort in the dank soil, all caressing while eroding and exfoliating and excreting. We make the soil as we destroy the soil. Meaning is lost. Whole places with the swimming pools chanting with life as the bulldozers and bombs, call attention to what was. A playful dust mite dances per usual, no nothing, no Something all lost. May my jewels crafted from the core and flour ground from the bones and fire derived from the stars, and spit from the primordial ooze awaken into this breath and the next. Life dances on this pinhead of a moment. May I know my place in it. Center me in the dust. Help me create and play and live in this gently awakening surface. Oh, night playing with all of us and tickling our souls with dread. How to communicate, to listen enough into this moment. How to be outside of panic, and inside the depth of being. Oh fantastic moments oh finding heart in this nose dive, nosebleed of extinction. What a joy to be!
