mellifluous musteline musings

You are out walking the dog

(You are set to rehome)

And it is 60 degrees and sunny

And you’ve the taste of cheap beer in your mouth

And someone is burning white sage

And Portland is abloom with vibrant purples and yellows

And it occurs to you

-

You are in a liminal space

-

This is like the Las Vegas airport

Cheap slot machines and harsh fluorescent lighting and drunk travelers

Or Times Square at 3 am in a blizzard

Empty and vibrant and full of fat snowflakes like static on tv screens

Or near dead shopping malls

Converted into storefronts of churches upon churches upon churches

Or abandoned buildings

Full of graffiti and broken glass and sprigs of verdant reclaiming

-

You are in a liminal space

-

Hundreds of cars but nobody driving

No eye contact, no drama with all the other dog walkers

(Because everyone avoids each other here)

(Maybe we are prone to it here)

Chalk on the sidewalk proclaiming look to the future

Vibrant suns and smiley faces,

“Look up”

“Look up,” it says

You look up once and you see

Not the sun but a beer can hanging from a tree branch:

Corona Extra.

-

You are in a liminal space

-

And there is nothing to do in a liminal space but wait

Wait

Exist between

Wait

Exist between

Wait

Exist between

Wait

Exist between

Wait

Exist between

Wait

-

You are waiting

You are existing here

Write something every day

Write something every day even if it is no good

Write something every day even if it is self indulgent

Write something every day even if you cannot piece together what you want to say

Write something every day even if you cannot show it to its intended audience

Write something every day even if you cannot show it to any audience

Write something every day even if you are ripping the words out of your fingertips

Write something every day even if you are emotionally bathing your brain in acid

Write something every day even if you would rather fade or dissociate or black out

Write something every day even if you would rather cry or scream or explode

-

Write something every day even if you do not wish to write even if you wish to die

-

Write something every day because it is your humble testament

Write something every day because it is your human trajectory

Write something every day because you are still here, every day

you did not emerge

from the same

primordial ooze

as most humans

-

the gods made you

from cornstarch

and water

and food coloring

for a bit of fun

-

you occupy the space

of two cupped palms

with complete synergy

you fit in every nook and cranny

between fingers

spreading into love lines

and life lines

taking on the shape

of whoever’s hand holds you

perfectly

-

ah, but

try to

tighten

that grip

and you

harden

into

rubber

nothing

gets through

every

atom

of your

being

toughens

you’re no

longer

a joy

to hold

-

but by allowing fingers to hold space for themselves

you will run through the tiniest of cracks

sidle through every loophole to trickle slowly down arms

trace the paths of arteries and veins away from the heart

follow gravity’s pull into the next awaiting vessel

(who must learn to hold you precisely)

leaving behind film, only a trace you were ever there at all

-

your essence dried upon my skin

i will forever be washing your grime

Nobody told me

How in February

Instead of snow

There would be snow drops

That all the raindrops would make the mushrooms spring up

In unexpected places

That fields of purple florals

Violets and crocuses and lavender sprigs

Would pop against vivid verdure

That roses would be strewn before me

Hot pink petals against dark wet concrete

That where there should be white death

There is so much colorful life

-

But I looked for your fingers

To wriggle their way up between mine

The way I’d always find them

And all this year brought me

Were purple blossoms

When the January rains come

The flooding feels biblical

You didn’t have the time

Or the materials

Or the know-how

To build an ark

Even an ark to hold one

(Just half a pair of animals)

-

So when the January rains came

You were swept away

Your head above the tide but only just

And every raindrop boring into your skull

Like water torture

Like stones flung

The sound of raindrops like bullets from a Gatling gun

-

You wait to drown

-

You wait for grief’s clutches to crush

Your lungs

Your brain

Your heart

You thrash in the dark waters

And the tears conjured from within you

Only sinks the ground further from your

(Unfortunately unwebbed) feet

As they blend with other tears

And piss

And blood

And cum

-

(Isn’t rain just filth purified by clouds?)

-

You breathe in, expecting water

You breathe out, waiting to drown

You breathe in, and it is air

You breathe out, and you are alive

-

And it is four pm, and

Everything is soaked, but

The moss overtaking the trees is so richly 

green

The cloudless bits of the sky are so deeply 

blue

-

The rain has stopped for a moment

And everything feels fresh, feels new

And the clouds on the horizon

Are dark and swollen,

full of wet promise

But in the late afternoon light-

In contrast to the grim grey-

i was a

word

ripped from the page

of the merriam-webster dictionary

torn from old paper

without my definition

floating through the breeze

until i encircled you

-

you, also a

word

ripped from another page

of the same well-used book

cut from faded parchment

without your meaning

carried by the wind

until you encountered i

-

and i saw myself in you

you in i

we thought

in both being devoid

of connotation

and denotation

we could complete each other

you became my definition

i became your meaning

-

but you never meant i

i never was defined by you

to say otherwise is a lie

not even an iota rings true

-

our separate explications exist

but they are our own

specific set of

words

that we must pen for ourselves

with our own ink

with our own flair

with our own think

with our own care

-

i believe

however

(because we are written

so much in each other)

that we are

destined to be

I walked with you

In the park

And our hands were

Intertwined

Like tree roots

-

It was midday

In the park

And the sun shone

Hot and bright

On our crowns

-

Did you know that

Trees communicate?

Whole forests talk

Entire parks gossip

About weather

About water

About whether it will rain

About which trees are in pain

Maybe about two strangers

Sharing time in the shade

-

We are still growing

And every moment

In the park

We grow still

Together, saplings:

We share our nutrients

Through laced, sweaty fingers

We combine our knowledge

Through the same breeze in our hair

We deepen our understanding

Through rings from all our moments

-

We are still growing

Towards that lofty canopy

i cry over you in secret at secret times in secret places squirreling away my grief in secret dens ‘neath secret branches

you might never know there has been rain these long hot days have been so sunny but there is a sea churning inside my brain a vast ocean roiling inside my tummy

i have become practiced in smoothing over cracks in inhabiting this mask in optimisms when you ask how i am

everything’s great (alack!)

i love you too (alas!)

but like a wolf returning to her cache i unearth the ache, the hurt i do not give it a wide berth though it festers; in the dead sea of my chest i allow it to salt cure to nourish to flourish

i just wish...

i lope through the darkened wood i climb to the mountain’s hood i raise my snout to my good friend moon and i croon, i croon, i cry over you

O, my hart!

To view the world atop Your slender neck Lifted up Betwixt the many points Of well coiffed antlers Is the greatest pleasure I’ve come to treasure In all of the world.

O, my hart!

To bury my face in Your fragrant neck Inhale your scent Of earth, of sweat Of trees, of sex It’s safety and comfort That I would come for From the ends of the world.

O, my hart!

To feel your breath Hot on my neck As you mount me Wreck me Fill me Spill into me Your seed We both need This most primal Act of survival If we are to endure Til the end of the world.

O, my hart!

To attempt to tame you Was to wreck you I am not Artemis You could never be Part of my hunt You were never a Trophy to be won I am ashamed to Have tied a noose Round your lithe neck To have suffocated And eviscerated You such that you felt You no longer existed in the world.

O, my hart.

Harts are meant to be free, Hooves trampling dead leaves And daintily skirting young trees In the forests, to do as they please.

And hearts are meant to be free, Love given without plea, Feelings flowing with ease, Not locked away, not subject to freeze.

Oh, my heart.

I have never been your rock, But you are mine. I’ve clung to your crags, Fingers deep in your moss, And I’ve weathered so many storms That have just weathered you.

No man is an island, But he may be a rock at sea: Safe and strong and unyielding; Hard and cold and unyielding; There is no shelter on a rock Except for arthropods- I have become an insect; Small, frail, scared To feel at home on your Facade of roughness.

You have always been my rock, But I’m not yours. I am only a small beetle Trapped By the endless water around us; I expect I shall be Snapped Up by a hungry bird And you would never notice.

Every time my face would fit Perfectly Into the crook of your neck “I need, I need, I need you” On my tongue on my lips on my teeth Sighs and whispers of longing And belonging And you, deeply wronging

Every time you’ve said you need me It’s because you need space.

I have never been your rock, But you are mine. And I recognize the folly In clinging To a rock at sea, Because you will erode Spectacularly Into bits of sediment And sentiment—

You’re not as strong as you think you are.

And I alone am far stronger than I feel with you.

To know a dog’s love

Is a kiss of sun in rain:

every spring i find the corpses of baby birds strewn about the sidewalk, their stunted wings and spindly legs wrenched up like mummified hands, as if they tried to (with their whole being) cling to life while they fell.

(but gravity is certain; it does not, cannot, yield its grip; death has a handshake as firm as concrete and life has phalanges as brittle as bird bones.)

but though life let these fledglings go, they could not let go of life; well, of hope; the hope they might still live; that the breeze might give lift to wings too weak to withstand the weight of even frail, hollow skeletons that shatter like spun sugar on the cement, the tearful trail below.

do mother sparrows sing in sorrow? do father finches forage a little more forlornly? do broodmate chicks peer down from their nests and understand loss?

anger is a dull knife twisting in my gut, but it is still not enough.

inspiration is a bleed pooling in the back of my skull, but it is still not enough.

frustration cracks and shatters every one of my ribs, but it is still not enough.

desire swells my tongue, hope grasps my trachea; sadness squeezes my heart, discontent pierces my lungs but it is still not enough

i think about killing myself at 430 am when everything feels heavy as if the rigor mortis has already set in it pulls me into the earth like i am being reclaimed recalled a doll slathered in lead paint a bag of dog food riddled with metal shards i can only hurt those who liberate me from my packaging i am a flawed product of my own subconscious designs and the mold from which i am cast is near impossible to break

i am the endangered tiger starving to death in a claustrophobic cage i am the greedy mouse struggling to break free of the glue trap i am the fetal chick whose beak never formed

how much longer can i be trapped here and what if it's forever and what if i run out of oxygen and what if i didn't even care and what if i just let myself go

it's 445 in the morning the sky will begin to lighten soon and the cerulean bloom behind the buildings in the east will square off with the moon's cold glare high to the west and the world will look so small then and i am small too and i live a small life and i think small thoughts that maybe someday will be smaller still

perhaps small enough to slip between the atomic particles of me to be free of this cerebral death row cell ?

i like calling you shrink

not because you try to 

minimize

scrutinize

biop*sigh*

my life

but because

whenever i hear your voice

or see your sardonic teeth

with your smiles

as you're pulled forward on your chair

as you confess to me

no other television show can touch breaking bad and

humanity's completely fucked

and actually

r e l a t e

to me, damn

whenever you tell me 

"good to see you"

even though i'm fifteen minutes late

and you're still making bank

i actually

b e l i e v e

you. shit

i like calling you shrink

because you actually

minimize

put aside

the anx*SIGH*

ety

i don't think i would be missed, not truly

i mean i think here and there people might think on me fondly

and then clutch their throats like they've swallowed a shard of glass

loss is never easy to get down, even if it's minor

but once it's in your stomach and those

esophageal wounds start to heal

once those scars cool down from raging, wounded crimson

to peaceful pale resignations

i don't think i'll be missed, not truly

evanescence is the only constant in our understanding

of this space-time continuum

even the so-called permanence of fame is an illusion

one day everything we've realized, discovered, conceived, loved

will be dust

will be less than dust

will be smaller than the atoms composing

the slivers of borosilicate

that only time, not stomach acid

what the fuck even

has my life become these days