Saturday, September 26, 2020

Fear the Snakes will be Lonesome

In the dreamspace, he makes love to me in ways which are unsatisfying, to which I cannot commit, and after we argue about the right way to care for fish. 

A train station, a small drum, a space where once a stove went. We have certain intentions with respect to Vermont that hover over the marriage like texts we are unprepared to read.

Making a conscious effort to be whatever form of intelligence I am.

Chaos is a symptom of patriarchy.

One thing I learned was that I am feeding the world, and that is why I am hungry.

Five thousand years into it, Prometheus sighs and wishes he could stroke the raven straddling his gut, because he understands now it's all a dream, an advertisement for technology.

Quit while you're ahead is bad advice on so many levels.

A long drive which takes me past the farm where twenty years ago I bought goats to kill and eat, the killing of which killed part of me.

Radio stations sputtering in this part of the state.

She leaves folded blankets and quilts around for the cats. I do not like to dream, but cannot not dream, and so I try to learn from them.

Chaos realms. A dim light as if inside a fish tank, a loveliness that marked me early and to which I have been faithful, despite the many hurts.

Old tractors remind me of him.

You want to find out what's on the other side of what you're not supposed to do and all you learn is that in general there are good reasons not to do the things that generally speaking you're not supposed to do. 

After the first cup of coffee it's all down hill.

Yet define justice, and other traps.

Other perils.

Somebody has a map I need and it doesn't involve anybody sucking anybody else's cock, nor poems about hunger nor even angels, and oh brother oh sister in this vile den we are not allowed to leave for fear the snakes will be lonesome: I know at last who has the map.

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