Monday, February 7, 2022

Boyishly Making It Work

Winter mist. Nobody is getting out of here yet so stop plotting. The storyteller finally manages to jerk himself awake. Always ask: who is tending the fire?

Early morning she reminds me of the Goddess we agree we will not speak of, and my joy enters the world like a recently-rescued pup. Heart of darkness, cockroaches, Zarathustra's throat et cetera. It's not supposed to be easy to follow Jesus but nor does he ask for followers so maybe it's on you? The far hills she may or may not have seen but probably did see.

West and a little north. Before anyone is awake I trudge through snow to feed the horses, then stand quietly under the hemlocks long enough to write "I stood quietly under the hemlocks." What do you lose by skimming and what do you keep a little longer? Cosmic ripples.

We agree before getting naked not to do X and then do X and look at one another after in the ruins of yet another ancestral narrative our bodies delightfully transgressed. Fractals are given so that we might have a way to describe angel wings. Mistaking reflections for something other but actual. Jacking off while she watches. 

It's not easy but still. Living boyishly, making it work.  Many messes. Morning, yet again. 

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