Winter constellations arriving, a reading of Thomas Kempis

Today, I am inside of myself.

Can you still see me
Crimped up like the soreness in my spine that
Keeps me from the painless sleep I need,
Can you see how I
Caught the winter’s-eve
Constellation Orion rising at my window out of the
Corner of my eye, how he
Conjures up November like the memories
Casting me from sleep?
Closed eyes finally dream dreams of dancing
Characteristically specific, the
Kind where I have someone to smile at
Kindly yet
Kind of haunting in a way
Considering such recurring factors as a familiar
Countenance not familiar for nearly twelve weeks and I
Can’t forget
Kempis was telling me about true love,
Keen and daunting as
Chiron and God I
Crave that self-
Control again. But

Today,
Concrete kisses have scraped my elbows and my ankle is sprained.

Gaia’s advice implored picking wisely

I.
Sometimes there were figs in his hands. But no flowers.
The only thing I expect flowers from are seeds.

II.
Ceramics class in the city: many of the girls would throw their clay into slenderly curved vases.
Curiosity: I asked one of them Why.
          To put flowers in of course.
But not a pot to grow them for a whole season?
          Blinking;
You’ve never been given flowers?
Just once, just sixteen, just hung them on the wall after they started to die to keep a little longer.
Poor things.
          That’s silly.
Not as silly as making a vase and expecting flowers.
She raised her eyebrows and resumed picking a glaze. 

III.
Sometimes there were figs in his hands. But no flowers.

Figs–
whispered promises
warming with earthy opulence
waken the blood, borne vitality of trees–
Figs are meant to be picked. 

Flowers–
the godly imagination of the ground
yanked into breathlessness
into a bundle of thoughtless, hasty kisses–
Flowers are not meant to be picked. 

IV.
Sometimes there were figs in his hands. But no flowers.
Wishing just once would I turn to the sacrificial sight of a wild daisy dying brightly. 

I use 0.5, 0.7, and 1.0 mm Pilot Pens (after David Foster Wallace)

It’s just words. Just words. Just words and words and words. Just just and just words and words just words.



Nothing just words.

Everything just words.

All words just words. 

All words, Just words.

Everything, Just words.

Nothing, Just words.

Nothing nothing just, Just words. 

Everything and everything just, Words.

All words all, Just words.



I wrote this to say: Just words. Just and words just words words and words words, Just words.

A note, Here–Just words. Just words and words. Just words and just words and words and words just words. Just just just and just; Words. 



Just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words jut words just words just words just words. Just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words, Just words just words, Just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words just words.



About: Just Words.

I: Just Words.

You: Just Words. 

And It: Just Words.

You especially: Just Words. 

You, Especially: Just Words.



Just just just and just words and words, just words. 



Just words and words and words and words just just just and just and just words just words just words just words and just words just words just words and just and words, Just words.

The best way to break the ice is with a dead deer

or a single scoop
at Marianne’s
on a cone, please.
Thanks

chocolate and peanut butter
what kind did you
get? 50-50?
“Customer Favorite,”

classic
maybe i should tell you
i’m not, though.
seriously,

i can feel every microcosmic smudge of cream on my face and every potential, which means i’m gonna shred this napkin thinner than these get-to-know-you conversations before we’re even through here, yet it won’t necessarily stop me from eating the whole curséd thing even though i firmly believe that my alternations between forming coherent phrases and swallowing these fantastic globs of chocolate certainly will betray my severe struggle to appear at least averagely controlled, so yeah, basically this melting Mount Olympus sugardream is the main cause of my urge to run into the middle of the street but at the same time the very thing thing that keeps me from running into the middle of the street, in light of the negligible fact that i also think you’re kind of cute, but whatever, i mean

this is
just
small talk. anyways.
Which reminds

me, have you seen the
dead deer
on the trail?
I found it when i

was running through the
woods
this morning.

Get-to-know-you questions after finally breaking the ice (a prayer)

Where are you when I am less than
sober
and want to stone myself for my own transgressions.

But, guilty as charged: I’m not perfect. Am I
not
allowed to cast stones on even myself?

And sometimes I wonder whose hands are
bloodstained
the most. Now I have said something terrible.

But you are not normal. Lion’s
teeth
in your eyes. I think that’s why I love you.

And I am a fool. I can hardly tell the difference between
breathing
and drowning. Will you catch me either way?

I question that you’re the sky; I think you are the
sand
and dirt. Besides, that is where I am made every day.