skin-tight blue jeans
After Washington Post article: “The ‘blue’ for blue jeans was first made 6,200 years ago in Peru”
You cry for wisdom, oh Solomon. We cry, let us doubt and mourn. And the history of education is a tectonic drift—some lava is more than couch cushions. We’ll all blister in the sun, thirsty for mountain soil soaked in spring water.
And the ground purrs. There is no elastic in the arms of a man with no skin.
Poor is just two hollow eyes between rough consonants.
When you grow up longing, the earth is your goldmine—the mountains—they are the walls and walls of Wall Street.
When you find out the word bigot is your very closest neighbor, your soul will bleed as the sky. We all know oxygen is blue—it is why we’re sad all the time.
I have a name. It is Indigo, not purple—the colors have no meaning unless you run in your blue jeans through cornfields.
Huaca Prieta gave me a patriotism I never knew. I always hated the fireworks, only the watermelon seeds that grew babies in me. We’d walk the dog to the lake to see him dive straight in—uninhibited.
And maybe, originally, we praised God by way of blue jeans, and now boys get inside of them. It makes no difference.
Colonies take men away, and girls lie awake and prod at their exposed breasts.
What is there to say? Little deaths used to be as foreign as European countries, now they happens on a raft tucked by down pillows. There is so much she wants to see, to touch, the alive and green pastures that line the buildings with fresh minty breath. But time is wasted on artificial voices, pixelated towns and pets. What has eyes is never seen, nor do the potatoes taste like soil, only grease. There is only sitting and AC. Dreaming, all of them extra-terrestrial or bring up the past through vulgarity unthinkable. If only my life didn’t have lines—but on the outside, I am not a failure, and my pictures are worth more to me than the moments they took from the former present.
the flight and plight of attraction distraction
There was a fire
and then they kissed, in Holland 1945,
but she could only see windmills
through selfie-sticks in perpendicular motion—
a pancake, and sparkling lemon tea.
She awoke to a dream—
was it exploding celebration or xenophobia in the hands of small power?
There are no more whips,
and yet there are still scars, scabs, and new, freshly blue bruises.
The dream ended, eyelids closed, she ran between hills from the foreign, rationalizing with the alien suspended in motion above the earth — lack of control, a spitting-image of a Present waiting below the trash heaps of white-cloud heavens.
And the soil tastes flesh again and again, and
again our sleeping
no longer contains
visions of holiday.
Which is more human — the cheese of cow’s milk or pulsing shadows?
There are two worlds that the post-modernists lives in, that is to say, all alive and working people in this very moment, each person who wishes to belong. These two worlds are reality and virtual reality. Virtual reality is where your nightmares lay, your insecurities and weak premonitions. It is that thief of joy, a comparison of wits and value, experience and love. Maybe it isn’t all evil. It will drive you to new pursuits, flights, landscapes, and hopefully, enlist a craving for more knowledge. Or on the other hand, it can enlist a craving of pure humor. This prior sentiment is due to reality, cold and brutal, where flesh wins and more blood is seen than smiles, or at least that’s what the alter-reality tells you. You become fully alive and you are in a drugged state, half-asleep and lethargic. Your eyes are glassy, and yellow lights from bulbs are apparatuses, and you learn new words about brain function. Who are we but our memories? Our credentials? Where are you from? What is your profession, or desired profession? Where did you go to school? It’s all there, right under your face like the blinking neon sign of a dying country bar. Whether it’s grand or small, we all fit through the same door when the tea ceremony begins. I fight lethargy, but the cold lump of reality sits in the pit of my stomach, the crevice of agitated acidity, and my pastel pink sheets glue to my skin as I lay living. These realities, alive and pixelated, are all truth. We cannot deny what we have all seen with our eyes. Unless the only truth is something all together intangible and unseen. If that were the case, there would be far less to worry about.
In Hyde Park London, June
Weeping willows remind some of sad, old widows, mourning their distress by toiling, sewing needles in thread through calloused thumbs. They remind me of the last days of winter, a solemn sadness no greater or worse than sending children off to college, putting on old rover to sleep. Your back aches from memories, knowledge, and too many sweet indulgences. A pigeon’s throat sparkles turquoise and lavender, but it’s gulp is not a head-banging strut, but a famished longing for us to leave and never come back. This land is my land, each broken collarbone jutting from the furry, brown dirt of summer’s false rain. It all looks so green, but it’s a giant fortress of notes. Bradbury’s talking walls are now the wind that shakes the falling leaves to sounds of water falling. Is it rain or man-made? There is no longer a difference. Forget your worries about labor camps, there is no other way to carry your things and feel beautiful, too. And I soak my feet in remembrance of a woman last alive in ’97. It’s bonkers every where, and I agree in silence, but closed lips never did anything for anyone.
Reykjavik, June 22
(not sure what this is, I’d just call it exhaustion)
I am visceral. I must envelope myself in aquamarine ripples, dancing glimmers, and cup the frozen light between my fingertips. I feel my body yearn like a phantom limb. It was just yesterday when they tipped me over, poured out all of the little comfort I had left–but I fight and wish I was a seagull. White, nothing, against smoke, and bronze ash is a blemish in reverse, a Monroe above a beautiful girls’s playful grin. It makes your skin crawl in satisfaction. How weird it is to feel completely homeless, helpless, on the verge of mania–the cold sets inside you, finds holes in your skin and goes straight to the marrow. One cappucino. One peppermint tea, a ham and cheese croissant. One Americano, with some cream. Am I there yet? And the dew evaporates–the sun shushes it away to play games beneath the seaweed and pebbles until broad daylight is over and the sun is only a wink. I am visceral. I must stretch out all four limbs wide, photosynthesis of an American-raised, hopeless-dreamer female–I read only what I can of love stories, too afraid to feel so much that I can no longer move and the only thing left are my five senses, but the sixth sense isn’t anything SciFi. Some call it Jesus, or maybe passion. Let’s all take a deep breath at the same time. I shouldn’t have told you any of this–by the time I became naked, fully comfortable sharing the same air with other vaginas, the smoky bay took the mountains away from me. I can no longer remember what I thought it would feel like to climb you.