I was raised in a black glass church Where they told you it was see through That they never hid anything for it was made of glass But even if it is glass You cannot peer through black It's truth was feeble and thin The glass broke into brittle iotas of the dark With one fingertip pressed, and no blood spilled Only the blacken blood of the black glass church Then I went to the church that was built out of sand I thought this one would be better Since it was formed like a castle With a red flag even posed on the top But who would have known That it was only for a show? Until the invertebrate blue waves Came hurtling in across the church of sand And the church became only a home for the tide once again I was about to give up when I found a rock to sit upon And it happened to be a church carved out of stone That didn't lie about its transparency And wasn't quite pretty enough to be for show So the church made of rock...
Let us choose our words like a child chooses crayons, calling them by their names of apricot, instead of what we see, orange. Let us peel off their paper coats and draw sailboats in the inner wool, so now we can roll them against the pages we tore from the backs of books, making wide inundations of color that mushroom across the page, so that we forget that the rivers we created were once only a stiff rivulet between a child’s fingers. Let us choose our words like a child chooses crayons, as fastidiously as Renoir dismissed his brushstrokes from his hand to the swathe of canvas as vast and ballooning, liberated and pregnable as the tract of a whale’s belly. Let us choose our words like a non-native speaker, who dares not call a fountain a toilet, and takes care in plucking words like searching for and paying full price for unbruised pears. Let us choose our words like a crayon, a Renoir brushstroke, an unbruised pear, and pay full pri...
I have felt my skin slide off my bones like butter across toast and pool at my toes; felt the sand trickling into my ears, confusing like it's the sound of rain, because I thought quicksand was a myth. Thank God for walls at malls whom are probably tired of catching my falls and listening to the shaky syringe-draws of a breath, I've felt this entire body of mine slip through the holes of the speakers and turn into radio static, subatomic and shaking. You touch the body but the numbness tells you if you can't feel it it's not yours; there is permanent tinnitus in my ears from a bomb blast where i was the only casualty, my only daydream is where i am present in my own body and in the dream i go to the grocery store only to hold plums not to buy them or anything else but simply to hold them, feel the soft parts of them, and the parts of them that the world made hard. I too, can tell you what it's like to be a stone soul inside of river flesh, to be a swo...
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