spend time waking at the peak of dawn
for no apparent reason other than to see the sun,
roll her eyes at the sight of us all,
again and again and again.
Wonder why we keep going,
cycles keep spinning,
and time wounds itself ‘round my fingers,
bruised bodies fall prey to ambush,
waking, a wide-open mouth,
screaming in my sleep.
Can’t catch dawn on any other day,
she’s always the same,
attempting to collapse into laps of lovers,
but you won’t find her there,
because beneath the warmth, illumination, and life,
she hides beneath holes too bright for eyes to catch onto.
spend time waking at the peak of dawn
Sunshine creeps, half-tainted in dust, ‘round butte tops head east,
rounded shoulders, swollen hands,
pale clouds of love hang over bedroom windows
especially in the morning.
blue eyes and blue skies,
an internal and external world,
meeting, with a sacred sense of belonging,
Hand-made feelings fill your guts,
along with tea and coffee,
and all the while just waiting
for hands to meet just unfrozen ground,
leaves, solid earthworms and mice,
scurrying just past your touch.
as we’re all only seeing from bits of pieces away
fragmented expenditures thrown out windows from disconnected appendages-
disconnected in ways of worldly existence,
forgetting our places and pieces of matching affection,
empathetic soul-reaching, stirring,
we all are one another are ourselves
in a continued frenzy to feel ourselves fill this vast vortex of unnecessary remorse with ostensibly necessary SHIT,
or so they say, so we say with our dollars and cents and inquiries into why we’re still doing and spending and watching our suffering passed unto others in ways that are more quantifiable than ours, ours are hidden, ours are vengeful, sitting on the tips of our tongues and inside the chips on our shoulders. Wonder, wonder, wonder why.
To watch the whole world dwindle into definitions of commodified, quantitative pages of a pre-written, too-orthodox novel. Double-think, don’t think: deep feelings, wonderlust, wanderlust, awe-struck profundity, wash away, wear away, an don’t come back for fear that we’ll, I’ll, find myself on a path not carved, or over-carved by those who don’t have the means to document because the means have been constructed by those who now give you no option but to exist within their anatomy of misery, self-stirred, ever-stirring suffering, disguising itself as satisfaction and devotion to you and endless love for filling you and your needs and desires and wants, maybe with a simultaneous twist of twisting you to pieces and crumbling your dreams and wishes and wholesome, lingering love of liberation.
Conform for necessity, conform for love, conform for passion, conform your passions to the passions of wanting, material, real, material, real. So mixed that sometimes we think they might be the same thing.
And when do we file for bankruptcy? Heart-ruptcy. Real-ruptcy.
Studying intentional communities abroad to better the community at home, with the benefit of simultaneously working on the prose that’s been sitting in my head!
Hey PEOPLE! I need to reach my goal soon, as I will be leaving the farm in North Dakota on the fifteenth of November to pursue other ventures in learning of components of intentional communities. Immediately California and Oregon and later to Greece and Spain. I need help getting places! Help me reach my goal so I can bring this all back to the States!
HEY! I am headed to Exarchia, hopefully, this Spring. I and another are studying intentional communities, open forum organizing, autonomous spaces, free-zones, etc. (Not to mention we also want to meet our distant relatives in the struggle, their struggle.) I am currently in the United States (don’t laugh) working on an organic farm and studying agriculture. I’m looking/hoping for a place to stay, some contacts whom I can rely on, collectives to check out, and so on. Does anyone have any idea where I can gain this information? I’ve a couchsurfing account and a facebook as well.
In love and solidarity,
Share if possible!
Hey people! I haven’t posted writing in a little while (though it’s all still in my notebook!), but I just created this campaign to hopefully aid me in studies. Please watch the video, contribute or share. Whatever you can! Sharing this link would be fabulous if you think anyone you know would be interesed. Email me if you have any questions! Please. Please! (I will begin to update this with stories of my travels, poems of my travels, information on intentional communities, etc, whatever is demanded of me, so feedback!)
In between swaths of forest there isn’t much thought,
claustrophobia in density,
heartbeats skip beyond here-unknowingly.
Rain falls in rhythm with rivers from eyes
who haven’t met home in weeks.
And weak become limbs from lack of love,
acquisition of soul-
Into capsules frozen beneath the soles of my shoes,
the skin on my feet.
To be released upon exposure to warmth,
In between swaths of forest there isn’t much theory,
though many echoes from a once well-lit existence
If these leaves carried song maybe you’d hear the vibration-
And in days where less pessimism was clouding this lens
would I find home in these in-betweens.
Happiness isn’t loneliness,
though perhaps love is.
For when existing without me,
I feel loss in distance between bodies.
The thickness of my skin could barely pass as paper.
Where the mind roams more
investments in moments shallow, loosen, lessen,
and my fingers yearn to be stuck in oceans, not clay,
in the pale hands of home
where swatting mosquitos could pass as charming, not incessant.
Shelter beneath woven bits of plastic is far from unbearable,
but when the morning footsteps of friends are confiscated from the insides of your ears
sometimes we miss walls.
I’m taking apart my lungs, or
sucking in oxygen that burns more than it breathes.
Creating several selves-
on different days,
hoping to create something which lacks proper existence
in a place where everything made is eventually bought
or everything thought of is eventually stolen by investors.
Investors in time and in energy, in “land” and in reproductions,
where ghosts aren’t figments of fractured images in your mind,
instead they walk halls with you,
they speak of children and of furthered zombified days, daze,
where pieces of selves crawl from the pores in your skin to the cruxes of your conversation,
become saviours or blows to the vitality of your existence amongst others,
where you wonder what pieces are acceptable or taboo.
badluckbigley asked: What is your inspiration for your wondrous writing- melancholy, retrospect of such, or are you delving into your "mind's eye"; the worldly perspective within your own (I hope I'm not coming off as odd for asking a question such as that (I just like letting my curiosity get the better of me))?
'wondrous writing'? I think it's mostly reaction to my reflections, but even at that words don't even remotely come close to sensations.
forgotten eyes bleed for familiar minds,
but existing all the same.
waiting for a day to wake to same souls,
normal behavior on the basis of past,
on the basis of desperate wishes to last.
cling to familiarity until it taunts,
until it up-heaves my core.
with no bearing, with no wheels,
no which way to steer back toward
a once well-known voice,
(maybe still known, though tucked away)
voice, in which the cracks I know better than my own palms,
your tone spoke the feeling,
and i’m spilling myself out more than once,
though perhaps too internally.
i’m a sister in memory, maybe in soul, yet not in practice.
your lips only indicate distance,
distance that will grow,
and excitement for what fills that,
(but maybe this is just right now)
listen: chemistry doesn’t end.
teeth-gnashing at prospects of
ending or beginning yet another romantic tale.
"people here aren’t scared of color",
we feel records rub up against us.
to dream of death, i think, is to
dream of eternity lying in our laps,
petting her furiously,
casting motions that lend themselves to hopes of still staying ever closer.
measure time in lovers, affairs, and chemical fascinations.
innocence, to eyes rolling backward, to two bodies engulfed in flames.
embody day, mimic night,
we become our own definitions,
to exist and lose control.
tethered to inward thoughts as I am to my own soles.
must mind them, mend them, grow.
illustration illuminates inside worry.
let love in, let light in,
dancing over dead-end bodies,
seeing wind faster than words.
tangling your hair,
disappointment lay below the waist-line,
and unsurprising birthmark.
the loneliness is clear and
the precision is lost, but the
loneliness was never intended, and
if succumbed to surface- trouble ensues,
in real, in reality, veils come undone-
we all want to be what we can’t for each other.
Steal the energy and feel your own soul.
Clean, clear, innocent in essence of empathy.
Become beyond physical.