Reopened

Reopened Broken, this intimate space we’ve reopened and understood too soon and sober, held too dangerously and strangely close. Oh! It’s so over! Take us back through all those days we’ve raked over. Place the anger under, our orgasms aside, rely only on instincts. Touch. Smell. Wet, warm, welcoming. Imperfections can be as sexy as anything smooth or symmetrical. We wait in cluttered, dusty places: our sanctuaries, our homes. Where so few people are allowed to enter. Hiding where you sleep, is hiding who you are. But strangely, it’s what us humans seem to do.

Hold steady

Hold steady! This moment won’t pass. It’s trying to re-happen. An echo of an echo of a feeling from a dream that I had just last night. (or did it have me?) Regardless, there’s a certain level of dispassion when moments mutate into mood-enhancing stances, deemed true by forward motion. WE ARE writing our lives as they happen. And some moments just need to not linger, but fall flat and become dismembered by the whirl of our backs turning on the present and facing the future. Opening the door for the million new moments, waiting to find us...

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by and large, the southern soap opera spins on and on, throughout decades and generations. we all start out beautiful and stupid. and we grow to be ugly and wise, before we even notice

So much sober these, thoughts find me wanting, playing with need like pet. A game of chemicals, sedation. The art of bending perception, seeing how far it can be bent without breaking. This is an ancient pastime, practiced for thousands of years by men far better than me. But the beauty lies within the execution, the tactile act, the numbing of flesh. Categorizing which particular vice... is irrelevant. It's the quiet inside need, that atavistic desire, that visceral urge to do what we know to be bad for us. All that matters. It's something like passion, yet not nearly as noble.

For someone who told me to start writing again....

waiting, always waiting, there's dissidence running through my veins, an atavistic need to buck, to burn, to howl into face of systemic maddness, yet I have no target, no emeny other than myself, this is why dogs chase their tails, this is why I wait, withdrawn from social encounters polluting my body to bend my vision in this stasis of anxiety and want and I fear, for my life to have meaning, I must find this shadowy antagonist, this elusive modern foe in order to function, to breathe, to move past this evolutionary boredom