bits and pieces of my prayer journal, interlaced with random spurts of poem.
let us raise our sorry heads
from where we plither in the hardened streets, our
machine-woven shrouds like filthy clouds. they
cover us with the excrement of a life well-pitied.
I awoke to the taste of dung upon my lips
as my typewriter ribbons ran dry and
the ribbons that hold my lungs together
breaking and bending and constricting I think I finally lost my mind between my pillow and my bed last night.
please do tell it I'm looking for it --
I wake up with a cold sweat closing in. the force of
my forgetfulness is so audacious that I could almost swear it stared a hurricane in the eye
told it to go to Hades
I am grown weary of giving my heart another screaming reason to whip blood around through its earthen trappings
my heart far prefers to gorge itself on the clouds that have been soiled by jets and bird droppings
let us raise our sorry heads from where they loll lazily beyond the guillotines
there is a living, breathing coffin upon which 7.046 billion souls like insects dance
upon its spinning body freezing and melting and cavorting in wild patterns
next year, I will be twenty
I will look in the mirror
I'm afraid I won't -
I'm afraid I won't have anything to prove to myself that
out of all the souls in this world
I'm the one who deserves another birthday.
what's the difference between turning eighteen and turning eighty?
what is there to raise our sorry heads for?
my Loved ones sense it, too -
we're just specks on a sphere
whirling 'round and 'round
kept to the surface by naught but a force we call "gravity"
bound to one another by "loves" and "affections" that are just as easily dissolved as salt is by water. who taught
water that when it finally burns itself to 212 degrees Fahrenheit it'll be released screaming bloody murder into the air? who taught it that?
and why should "Love" believe itself deserving of a capital "L"?
we see the minds of previous generations
getting eaten up and spat out by old age and dementia
we see them losing their senses of invincibility
realizing that every day is another shovelful of the dirt we're digging out for our coffins.
we're headed there, too, we're headed there, too....
he asks my why I care about his soul.
I ask him why he doesn't.
do you not feel the impending fury?
do you not sense the waves lapping at your heels, the
wolves biting the flesh off the backs of your feet?
do you not hear the agonized wailing in the caverns of your own hell-demented mind? because I do!
how can you miss your own last breath?!
let us raise our sorry heads and realize that if the trivialities of life are all you've got to live for
doesn't it make sense I'd be saddened by this Carnivalesque rut of madness
and that you can't see we've got so much more? we've got so much
I've got so much more to say, but first
let us raise our sorry heads and recognize our need for saying more
and our need for knowing More
I do know More, for I speak with Him every day.
until then, carry on, my wayward sun
push us 'round yourself 'til I find my mind again
in a madwoman's attempt to give you the resolution you seek
in a madwoman's attempt to