Do you ever cringe when you’re writing a thing because it cuts so close to the bone? Too close, maybe, if that means anything at all? If you don’t, how do you know you are writing what wants to be written? If you can’t feel it, aren’t you dead? Aren’t the words? Write about that then. Crawl into the places inside which are riddled with emptiness, words chattering around like so many petrified teeth.
Just please don’t write the stale shit, the leftover stuff passed down or along from other people who don’t have a clue what they are talking about or why any of it matters. Just run from them, run away as far and as fast as possible. We don’t need you to save us but we do need you to offer us a way out, or through, or under these days of nothingness which cling to our skin.
I wake before dawn as I always do. My mind hovers above my body and I watch as I swallow the water which chases the pill. I watch as I stand and then I sink back into myself and move into the reality I will make passes at all day but never commit to. The sky outside my window is electric pinks and crimson reds along the horizon. You can taste it, it’s so ripe with the bursting of poetic juices. They say it shouldn’t be, of course. Say it’s all lit up with orange colors because of the fires raging on the other side of the country.
If it’s beautiful, you probably shouldn’t. If it’s too good, it isn’t true. If it feels delicious don’t you fucking dare.
She writes about death in a way that intrigues me. I follow her on social media and wish the platform didn’t tell all my ‘friends’ about it all on its own. So fucking creepy. There’s no privacy anymore but we try to build invisible walls, erect some kind of boundaries, for what any of it’s worth. All the while the algorithms penetrate and probe us. What is more profitable than pretty young girls obsessed with sex and death.
What is pricier than the soul of someone who doesn’t want to be bought.
As I settle in with coffee and blankets, laptop screen blinking in the pale morning light like a sleepy eyelid, I think about words and what they mean to people who truly adore them. How tragic it must be for those who live their entire lives and are never gutted by poetry.
Everything is everything and nothing seems sacred anymore except to the very few among us who can see all the way into the naked eye of the truth as it was since the beginning.
Where are they now and how do we find each other.
I gaze out over the tree tops as the sun ascends in her lonely blue heaven. Wild geese crying out overhead, clear and plain against the billowed sky.