You will change in me
More in memory
there are no dreams
I repaint you in my head
I place you everywhere
what made you You, the great 'no', the great 'left turn' away from everything I wanted.
Gone now, and perfect now, without you
the best you...
...has nothing to do with you.
I have not yet grown tired of hearing her screams.
She is dying one room over.
There is still a scramble of concern, but there is no pain
medicine. It went years ago, almost
recreationally. At least for her it did.
The worried care must be replaced by firm service and after
that, a begrudging of time and supplies.
She has a long way to go.
When will we want to kill her? When will the right hands, the indifferent
but merciful hands, drag her out back and open her skull with a rock, or steal
her breath with a pillow, right there, right in front of us, next to my fucking
bed.
I promised Love, that it would claw at my eyes. 'Someday you will pull off my flesh so that you can have ten
minutes without pain'; You who love
me. You who showed me what care is
between two people. You will pull it all
down for a miserable life to be made a little longer, if just a little less miserable.
The very hands that wash your aching fevered skin now, will
climb over my children’s bodies for more air.
A burgeoning evil of need? Of impulse? Of innocent urge
scrubbed of identity by pain, by long hours of pain past pleading, of wild, thoughtless pain?
Would you all pull me down by the ankles to help you swim?
Should I not see you well and truly punished with this suffering, knowing that on Wednesday, your hands will hold the gun that seeks to kill me,
so you can live for five more minutes. That you will not care
for me the way you demand I care for others now.
Are you not that evil rapacious thing now, in that you will
be some day? Do I not have a reason to
reach you first. Remove from your reach the thing you would use to kill me,
always, even if that thing is your very life.
You mourn, and you mourn, and you mourn, but you do not lock the door.
~Punish Transcendence
two people stand in a room. One looks at a window, and one looks out of it.
The horror is not that two beings do one deed and in so doing are different in intention and capability but identical in deed, the horror, is that one body does the deed, and every story about why, is still that body.
Mercy and lust use the same hands. The angel does not get a second pair of hands.
When the life ends, the ending is one event in one place at one time, the motive (mercy or lust) does not occupy another room, it rides the same nerves, the same breath, and stands the same ground.
Self-awareness does not open an exit, it only watches the animal finish what the animal started. Self awareness is just more bananas and shorter mazes.
You know you are looking out the window, but you are still only eyes in a skull facing mirrored glass, and Time / Space do not split for the higher meaning.
You can run the maze faster or even see it for what it is, but that does not free you from it.
Transcendence is the extra thought that happens while the body stays in the maze. That's it. That is the imprisonment: not that you fail to see, that ignorance in not the real cage, but that seeing changes nothing about where you must stand.
~Punish Transcendence
A
Spell for Freedom
By the
gods of Ink and Bone and blue sky up above.
By gods
that see us drink and break what’s left of love.
by the
streams we wandered in the summer, then in snow
By the
time we squandered, fearing, dreading growing old
By the
light that from your face lit songs of hope in me
By the Oceans,
by the Grace, by the ruins in the sea
By the
candles that we lit, by the deepest scars
By the starry
skies that tried to show me who you are.
By the
fairies and their coin, by ravens and by the crows
By the
seasons where we danced through worlds they’ll never know
By the
flowers, by the stones, by the graves of birds
By the
paintings, by the hikes and by the tower of words
By the
blue wall, the white room and by the black raven’s door
By your pain,
by your strength and by your haunted shore
By your
hair, and by your face, and by your wounded hand
By your
oils and by your baths and by your living lands
By the
love I had and have for you, and everything
That came
from you, and let me live, and yet may still bring
The two
of us to some new spring, or cave, or van or yard
Or river
bed, or road or room or prison we must guard
By the
spells and by the signs and by the strength of fate
By the
cards, and by the wards… it is not too late.
You are beautiful
and still my muse, but mostly you’re my souls friend.
I love
you Freedom. have no fear. This is not the end.
We are not here. This all happened so long ago, and it happened in the sense that we are listening to the story we are telling ourselves, about who we thought we were, and how we hoped it would be. But we are somewhere else, watching, listening to the Deep Past while never really being here in the first place.
How do I get to you.
Beyond the reflections, beyond the mirrors that hold my own face and not the light from the horizon I have lied to tell. The phantasm's witness, apparently alive. How do I find you in the horror of my own
mind, hold those things we were, well or poorly built, but still, effable, and somehow, existing.
The stars are heavy, heavier than all. Would I find you there? At the bottom of everything, if I dig, into
each fiery heart, forget Freedom, let go, fall into where you might be, dive
into suns to find you. I keep the light
so distant, not even a breath on my wrist.
I have climbed so far to get here, to be finally. Alone.
