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[comoverde]

a musical device of love

i am

not gone

i am not

gone

           -como verde

[comoverde]

July 25th

It is black and white: seated In front of the television she peels the skin off half of an avocado and lays the black strips next to her soaking sweat glands. This summer day is typical, droll and bright, and she feels the impending sense of an infinite June lying before her like a field of colorless hot sand and static. The remote buttons are soft and yielding as a newborn’s flesh, and she presses them idly, slipping through telenovelas and natural disasters and the organized marketing of glamorized trash with such an ease that it seemed inhuman. Digging her free fingers into the warm green avocado flesh so glowing it was practically white pearl,  and then suckling on them, she considered how much more readily the interior was at her disposal, how much easier it was to destroy than the shards of skin, even though the skin is what she first saw and touched. For some reason, the skin lived -- it carried the greater survival will, it might even be everlasting. Some spinoff of forensic files begins to play on the television, the type of show that could only find air-time at a time like this, a tuesday 3 PM slot when there was little to no likeliness of anyone really watching -- the black letters “Death Detection”  flashing prominently against the white wash of the screen, almost piquing her interest. Then some stock-photo screenshots of a corpse came out, some caution tape, a few childhood photographs: the moment of her engagement was gone, swallowed by the information. But it didn’t leave before she noticed something, something about the show that was (unobviously) terribly wrong. People believe what they see on television because it usually requires no sense, but this show was so clearly, now, telling me -- begging me to make sense; that impulse of God was now, in what would otherwise be the dullest of moments, reaching to me. Contrary to popular perspective, the color of death - I have decided -  is White, not Black. White knuckles (Drained), white eyelids (if they were to be peeled back), and, (in particularly gruesome cases like in Death Detection where it is left exposed) white bone. And what is Black the color of? Black is just what closely follows - like a nimble kitten, or even as simple as  a shadow --  it slips in through the lips of death just as the catalysis takes hold: like your shadow, like the words on the screen, Black is what exposes you to the reality of the absence of your being - the silence and the emptiness that carries along,  always. The black, more readily visible, is what is felt and dwelt upon, but it is not Death’s color - it is just a reaction to the need for form, just words on a screen that try to beguile you into thinking there is some sort of meaning, or importance. That inexterminable blackness in our beings is not death, but its more secret and subtle consequence. The Whiteness of Death is really featureless, meaningless and could well be a pile of sweet nothings, a crowd of refracting butterflies dissolving into the sunlight, just like our existence.

I now realize that the skin of the avocado is a lie.  

[comoverde]

untitled no 4.,/in case you might be wondering

If you can remember it -

It, in some way, has departed from you,

it, in some way,

has already passed.

[comoverde]

untitled no 3.,/sweet n’low

may i, ecstasy of hunger

my intestine filled with emeraldine.,

may i, my sweet, throat a croaking pipe of citric salvia, my

sweet n’ low., and the fresh and pink, unconscious feeling 

may I

purge all night in a wet kitten

black, a deep slow             (for)

You truly begin to need    

the world when you have nothing

else to hold

[comoverde]

down the rabbit hole para 2.

a rewriting of the second paragraph of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland as a poem.

So she was considering in her own

as well as she could

For the hot day made her feel

Sleepy

And stupid)      whether

The pleasure of making

A daisy chain would be worth the trouble.

    Of getting up and

Picking

The daisies.

     When suddenly

A White Rabbit

With pink eyes

Ran close, by her.

Original Paragraph:

So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.

[comoverde]

what if you found Yourself (you do not exist)

With Her two thick legs, on the endlessness of the expanse of a Sea, the skin of the global universe - of bright green turf and blown out, powdery sun that matched even the most modest of the shin’s follicles, and of pink and red umbrella, though,

there was the absence of the rain. Her legs, unlike the others — that seemed to render Themselves

visible from somewhere on the interior. Legs with a glower

even in the daylight, Legs turning

time in half, in on itself so that it becomes: center less, fulfilled, even spotless — through itself rendering Itself

silent (but not) still

[comoverde]

the world 

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Night on the Island

At the invocation of you, fear comes and carries with it a dampness -- For the possibility that I might be in love with the it, the her, the you and all your possessives – makes me tremble with wet.

To look at you was somewhat as uncanny as to come upon a mermaid lazing upon a rock in an uncommon place [maybe by the Marina we would sometimes barefootedly visit, where the air carries gasoline, the sand full of horseshoe crab carcasses and green beer glass] Though, it is not wholly impossible, because I am seeing it – I see her, I feel her, I smell the follicles of sunlight that dance off of her body like salt into a water where boats, in bleak contrast, apathetically rock – it is still (your existence), as disputable as my reputability is as a witness: by its nature, it is inexplicable, mythic. Indeed, with your chameleon-like presence – legs that might at any moment, when wrapped around my waist, violently turn to a tail that, suddenly desperate for hydration, strangles me, and eventually drifts, by necessity, to an ocean greater than what I could ever offer – There is a captivating brashness, a fiery indelicacy in your intensity:

In each instant you, even in the protective shadow of my arms, transmutate: like color upon metal, or a rainbow reclining in the hazy air: and it is visible in the turning of the colors in your eyes, the unsettling presence of the freckles in the canvas of your skin, all leaving me so unsettled, All so tantalizingly volatile! And so I have come to know love as a violent movement, that in you does not breathe, but burns: You, the wind and the wicker of this fire. You, who are so powerful with that risk - of what you are, and of where and when you might end - Yet I can only feel ecstatic sweetness in the intensification of the pain, in the burning – for you remind me, in your voracious destructiveness, that meaning is derived from how all is lost. In the rapidity with which one may lose the form of her flame -- in your transience -- I am reminded of life’s precious momentousness.

This is intensity: and though it comes from a place of unknown, from the incertitude of the future and how it converts into past - it burns with a depthless deep: with something somehow truer than all of my sensibilities of what is here and what is past: For when I am with you, we may burn incontinently -- savagely-- eternal exiles, vagabonds of the former people we were, and our former ways of living -- but I do not focus on the nocuous smoke around us, disappearing into the air of hollow-- I focus on realness of you to me then, in that very hollow.

; and I do not focus on all of love’s aridities: such as how in the winter cigarettes sticking to your skin when we walk and you smoke will make you, and I, weary, and older -- instead I focus on the eternity of water in your heart that feeds your eyes when they seek within me.

; and I do not focus on how the night casts down like desperation itself a world of pure shadow as the end of the day encroaches, I focus on precisely how it is you lay, under our bedding, soft and destructible as a rodent, in the circle of my arms. And so when I am with you I cannot focus on the matter of your changing - on our changing - for I cannot imagine my love for you ever ceasing, despite how you might change, despite all of your persona’s flexibilities: I simply am, moved to move, to change with you; to dance, without forethought.

The world was loveless before you, the Language of my Life.

Night on the Island, Pablo Neruda

All night I have slept with you

next to the sea, on the island.

Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,

between fire and water.

Perhaps very late

our dreams joined

at the top or at the bottom,

up above like branches moved by a common wind,

down below like red roots that touch.

Perhaps your dream

drifted through mine

and through the dark sea

was seeking me

as before,

when you did not yet exist,

when without sighting you

I sailed by your side

and your eyes sought

what now--

bread, wine, love, and anger--

I heap upon you

Because you are the cup

that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

I have slept with you

all night long while

the dark earth spins

with the living and the dead,

and on waking suddenly

in the midst of the shadow

my arm encircled your waist.

Neither night nor sleep

could separate us.

I have slept with you

and on waking, your mouth,

come from your dream,

gave me the taste of earth,

of seawater, of seaweed

of the depths of your life,

and I have received your kiss

moistened by the dawn

as if it came to me

from the sea that surrounds us.

The world was loveless before you, the language of my life.

[comoverde]

The Red Tree, Seraphin Louis

--placed to precede Night on the Island

[comoverde]

untitled no. 2

The World was loveless before you, the Language of my Life.

[comoverde]

untitled no. 1

dark flies on the centerpiece

dark fishes in my

butter, i am exhausted

[comoverde]

mother

i reach my arms out and they grow

longer and longer

through the gray bridges of markedness to reach your located eye,

cosmic doorstep, spray

on my knees, yellow flower and gray

come to reach you, to meet you, alive

milk on your sea, meets my winding leg,

chimney sweeps the garden fields with god’s bombastic blow

me, in our mind, opened strawberries by encircled lighthouse thighs

necked the bellows of yellow salt, sought/

ought to be after black links of--opal--kiss

like december, weather, in baby,

remind me how to die, baby, open whether -- remind me,

how to wish

[comoverde]

The Dream

She takes a cigarette to light and sets a loose finger underneath the bath of running water; At the anticipation of all that hot water surround - of the generous whiteness of the full embrace - she throbs for what her body has missed. Flames of the candles dismount their wax faces in rose-gold sets of quivering, and besides the thrush of water that collapses from the silver chute onto the marble -- where she peers at her face and breasts, marred like an uncertain circus clown gazing into a glass fixture smudged with ash -- she is surrounded by a thunderous silence. She feels distinctly ugly, exposed, and quiet. She is not quite sure exactly where her mind is resting -- or what it is, for that matter, that she wants, there, with her lying finger: but in that moment everything seems quite -- large, growing outwards in the way that rain trickles down stones of a hilly crosswalk -- slight and subtle -- yet quite colossal.

Mentally, she is getting there: but it is a slow, winding swim. For though in quantity, water may be generous, swimming is infamously slow. Indeed, To throw a babe into the water would be to breed a timely murder; one’s sustainable synthesis with water takes years, and much of our own time: Water to foot to kick, lip to air, leap of the lungs and the constant bargaining with one’s own marrow -- there is much that is involved in the process of learning to move within water.

The bath runs, and she is trembling in the anticipation of the liquid steam that beams from the faucet like the song of a forlorn lady forgotten: first to react will be her knees, gathering altitude with a reddening swell; then, her breasts - as she adjusts to the sickly bulbous temperature by bouncing in and out - would heave themselves in suit above the face of the water congealing around where the nipples broke surface tension. Water is queer, she thought: While the body is so fretted by its presence, it in turn moves the body with such a seeming ambivalence -- how is that so? For one to touch another and to have such little effect, such small care: its masses return to initial position long after the body has passed, the molecules spreading uniformly back like a creamer, as if never unsettled. Where has it been to acquire such a resilience, ambivalence? She wondered.

She thought, as she allowed the crumb of her fingertip to ascend into a burn -- of this magnificent power of resistance of water, which makes it seem to have preference, a conscious. Its temperature, for instance, or its weight; both can as easily crush life as they can nourish it. It is all conditional, and just like her, it always changes: and though it does not seem to notice her, she knows that it must, as it curls about her enflamed cuticles.

Now, she can feel it pressing back against her as she dips her body to touch the glassy bottom. It is almost as if, it asks: how do you fit within me? How, together, do we move?

She fingered the novel she had brought with her, swabbed with the humid gloom: Murakami, the colorless life. She thought of how it seemed for tsukuru, though perhaps unaware, that water somewhat unconsciously embodied the idea of impermanence: the ebb and flow, the constant passing. And this thought, that he might not know, soothed her like a new lilac’s fragrance as it is, in a crisp air, gently unfolding. After all, she thought, who could truly be waking in a life and think it to be without color? how could he have lived so long within only transparencies. She then somehow knew the ungodly push of pressure and heat as she entered would all, too, someday pass, as if a voice had told it to her.

You are sitting at the opposite edge of the bath tub from me, knees curled up too, like wet paper left to dry out in the sun. The ends of your hair form little wet black curls like snails settling into salt, and your cheeks hold a flushing beauty that is almost unimaginable: it is almost surreal, if such a thing could have existed. Playful, I push a bit of water towards you, to test your certainty, and pleasantly a series of rushings is set off that eventually hits the core between your breasts.

With this surge of confidence, I move myself up further, kissing the walls of flesh that form your inner thighs and descend into the river of empty black space between them; we have a few thick white candles that light the walls with scalding orange flame: a tribe of elusive citric dancers; but for the most part, it is too dark to see the room and its details, leaving me to think of the uncertainty of how it is that I will be able to make my way into fitting within you - the exactitude with which I will be able to make a remark on your pale, shuddering frame: your vessel of sinuous being.

I hold the water with my teeth in my now open mouth like a sea creature, a crocodile,  and with my hands begin to form shapes along you. First I pressed in an x, then I moved onto a C. This is the nature of sexual experimentation: finding the correct geometry to see the synthesis of body to body among a darkness of endless undulations. I noticed that you felt like flesh.

I wasn’t spelling any word in particular, but perhaps I was just doing an instinctive interpretation: an alphabetical dance. When we were just little girls, from the first time that I tasted you, you told me to just spell the alphabet with my tongue. Here now were the same, timeless fruits of my feelings of affection: D,D,P,J,S,V,R. Completely indistinct, thoroughly unintelligible.

I never learned another way to love you: when I love you I follow our algorithmic order, thinking intensively of how line meets flesh and your body surges upwards to me in a wave of fierce hair, compilations of molecule, felt and shadow; in ripples of pleasure and in mismatched eyes that open and shut like tides -- all while blue lit curtains wave and rustle, as the sounds of breathing and rocking go back and forth, those sounds of everything causing everything, to shift but then to return right back. And you never asked, which made me think that that was why I was good enough. I now know well enough that it is that it is not because of your teaching that my love is strong: that that was not your voice, but rather your father’s hustler magazines that we used to flip through on tired days with hot chocolates and a gushing apprehension on the green bedroom carpet, bellies to the floor, feet locking and unlocking. The workings of the way that I love you -- the reasons of their nature, and their affinities to me -- will evade us all. Water, also, in this way, seems miraculously inexplicable - it appears ambivalent to our presence -- it so obviously scalds but is not scalded. Yet, in our burning, we move with it, and so it must, even if it is in ways we cannot know, move with us, for when we submerge within it, as if by magic it always finds for our bodies just the right fit. If as a girl I lacked the tenderness with which to touch you with my mouth as myself, Marina, I found the will through my potent love as a scribe -- I found our perfect fit -- though why my love for language and writing is so potent that I could make it erotic, I cannot describe. I never bothered to learn another way to love you: I love you not purely through myself, or through you, but through language; my chosen vessel. And though it may be a more secretive approach to my affections, and though we may never know why it is that vessel,of all vessels, that is mine, it need not make our love any less tenacious.

Though everything does seem to eventually reverberate back into place -- for right now she is actually one, stuck in a daydream like a fly in yellow wax. Everything around her is too consistent: The candles still burn orange, the water still aches hot. Body of fires: the memory almost so real that she did not ache for actual company. That memorized taste of the ecstatic body was almost enough to justify the loneliness, which brought such an extraordinary reservoir of surging feeling -- not only the feelings of what was felt, but now also what to feel those meant -- to be in the dream meant not only to taste but to know how pure was the true meaning of tasting, for to be in the dream was to accept that one has been affected, deeply, and in this case dearly, by what has already gone: and so to be with her in the dream was almost better than being with her, and being with her, even if only in the dream, would forever surpass being wholly alone.

[comoverde]

(an)interpretation

June, Luna: It has been three weeks. You haven’t called. Things have fallen into a disturbingly silent, quiet destitution. And I am becoming restless, disquieted. There is rising, like a wave in swell, an urge for change, a desire for electricity, reactivity. Things have become all too still and all too predictable, and I am starting to forget the pains and pleasures of novelty, shock -- in your absence -- without you. An agitation of sorts is now in order.

I have decided to dye my hair. I guess you could say that it is, in some way, its a change I am making because of a desire to preserve something--to preserve us. Somehow, it feels like an equilibrium must be maintained -- that something has to give. Because I am not ready to move past the feeling, I am not ready to let go; so instead of the entirety of me changing, which I feel inevitably coming, I have created a surrogate for myself and this passing: I have discovered a temporary appease for the need for this energy expulsion, for my manic desire for form, gesture and texture to fill my world because I am disturbed by the undisturbing nature of this peace that has begun to surround me--I am not ready to learn, let alone like peace. still want to feel the charge, the incredulousness of love in all of its tumultuousness -- I am not yet ready to leave this planet I have so long inhabited. For if I am not a person of much faith, and I have lost you, how will I be able to believe what (and that) I am living and have not transitioned into a dullness of death?

This substitution exists as something, or in someone -- which must be given in order to fill the mold you have abandoned -- for though I am not needing because I am contented -- I am not connected. I need this, so that I may prolong and savor this moment of knowing that I am savoring, to relish in being for a bit longer. This just happens to take place in the form of a box of Manic Panic Blue Electric. This is, essentially, a new act of interpretation to replace, to mourn-- the loss of our loving.  This is me saying, I am not ready to die. This is me saying, to you -- to something larger -- never let me go.

I turned on the sink, and held my breath. Almost immediately, I was traversing through memory, nostalgically being swallowed by your loose, pirouetting fingers -- packed tissue pressed against me as my nostrils are clogged by aqua; as I am overcome by a numbing suffocation.

I am, obsessive; and while I might be a fool to feel entitled to crave the sweetness of you only because I have once had it, felt your velvet, the burgeoning of your heart’s thinness- an open template under my lips, in my arms -- I  know that what is lost is lost.

But, I also know that no difference truly exists between the man enlightened through the contemplation of silence and the one with his head accidentally in the sand: both are encompassed by a warmth and comfort that wilfully keeps at bay that which cannot be changed; of what dances before us, outside of our hands, they are accepting, and so in their surrender achieve a sense of oneness. And so I,  In my forms of clumsiness, of wilful delusion and denial, I was no lesser because of how my acceptance of my reality chose, slowly, with great struggle, to manifest:So I put my scalp underneath the faucet and as the water massaged it I tried, once again, to go to the seascape of space that constitutes your mind, your memory; as if my mind was ejected through the outward flowing to create space for the inward drift and drive of your consciousness [ Where are your thoughts resting? Where are you, at this moment, most filled with feeling?] And I wondered of the little white sand dunes of the space behind your mind: filling me with A lurid madness, a drunkenness, a blur, the elementary fluctuations of existence, this Water, You, forever flowing. I am dying in it blue, in blue. I am purging you, and I am not ashamed. My head will blue, and empty.

For I have replicated what it might mean for a moment, again, to behold all that is to exist with a true sense of purity -- pure chemesis, pure color, a pure transformation: from brown to blue. And I feel my lungs whispering water, and I feel the feeling of falling, heavier, as the curls grow saturated from the center -- And I can see the tips dangling on my overturned scalp.

Underneath the sink of running water, where pinkening blossoms of carnivorous light cover my eyes from the metal mouth’s secretion: and water pushes water which pushes me; a series of movements, a series of old sentiments.

I am trying to purge myself, but actually just playing against myself and the scalding universe in this act of self-domesticity; The realization that I am trying to hold on to a mode of self, a mode of life that is past -- plagues me with a heaviness that sags and saddens: and in ascends the heat of the nothingness, the cool sink of the silence, of all that water gushing from ear to ear: despair, disgrace. I am in the shower of that. I am here and alone and I do not breathe in. I smile and sing to myself. Frogs of shadow dance around me and the floor is a state of twinkling. And then I notice: To be alone is to be purely between death and living, for to breathe and then to not breathe is to live and to die, and we do not breathe together, and under this sink I am in the loneliness of not breathing: I am somehow dead and alive. I am not living on an edge but exist as the very edge itself. Now, I am the impossible, and because of that I become powerful, outside of the logic of this universe. In the suffering, somehow I have surpassed it: and so all that preceded it, though it seems simple, and silly, also feels somewhat necessary. And so I stare at my head. And to blue, a color of the universe, I pay tribute in the matrix behind my eyes: I hold with it a sense of distance made and then completely extinguished, a sense of honor: 2 steps forward and an eternity of steps back.

For it is as if my organs of fear have become an singular aggregation of inflammable pumping, not against, but instead united with me: and so not even the brightest erections of a flame could any longer disrupt them into fires, and I rise: changed, as you used to make me, except this time, thankfully, just blue, singular, burnless, pure, and still -- Indeed, there is not even one mark, one singe; all becomes internal.

[comoverde]

25 Reasons

For Austen

1.

It is night and I am on my way home in the cellular-like capsule that is this silver train car, and my ears are buzzing with a liveliness - a swelling, a fruitful fullness - that is energetically yellow. As she pulls to a halt, propelled by the inertia of something other – perhaps the earth, perhaps the machine’s engine, perhaps that simple foolishness of imbalance – I graze the tender-marbled bottom and seem to float towards the nearest opening door; And as I pass through the rubber enmeshed teeth of its vertical doors, which peel at the pre-wintry air, I begin to have a most peculiar thought: that this door is not only a door, but also an eye: An eye tipped by a lateral gravity onto its side, like a wound in the metal; one that is wide, and resting, and open. An opening at peace: Perhaps it is a migrant eye - an alien eye - that in another material nation, in another dimension, on another set of transportive faces, exists without a queerness (this dimension that I now claim and discover - as a ruby red jewel or a dazzled piece of lapis, winged in fresh white light - to be somewhat mine). What colors in my world are so extraordinary in their splendor, that I find it hard to reach in and feel the body of my darkness, the darkness of my body. And then I think of something full of even more absurdity: It is night. And perhaps this door might be some sort of threshold – something stranger - and visionary - though, even as I walk through it, I cannot quite place how. Just as colors change through the descent of night, perhaps doors also become ocular, and other things in the consciousness also become sugared and quivering with strange, pageant saturation, and completeness.

Perhaps with this fall of color on the outside, I can finally become painted on the inside; like some sort of brown, carnivorous, super-galactic star.

2.  Tonight I am small and hopeful, and The air is cold. I pull my jacket around me, and globules of light seem to fall from the trees into the dust of the sidewalk like an earthly serum - perhaps I am walking upon the very aftermath of the stars grieving the repetitive, colorless, and perhaps at this point somewhat endurably unbearable loss of sunlight; Day after day - or perhaps I am just aggrandizing the nature of my movements. Such is a necessary task for survival - we think ourselves bigger, so that we actually do not disappear into our smallness. A witch doctor once told me, it is possible to disappear with simply your mind - how else do the spirits of the ghosts churn in the invisibility of the daylight? How else can I explain feeling you, always, when you are not around.

Day after day, I make this walk, always the same, crossing across the same crosswalks and underneath the same awnings and glass and torpor, tracing and retracing a trail of monotonous doe-colored marks: sculpting my memory with a great discipline.

3. I do this, even though it is the more dangerous of routes, because I believe that Memory can be medicinal in that way: (you see) This is how I sustain myself; and even better, this is how I can sustain you. Laugh if you so please, but This is the way that I have found to live through each moment, without having to grapple with the hilarious sopping absurdity of my own bodily presence – without having feeling the harshness of all of my living, thriving instantaneity: my cardiovascular junglegym that refuses to blow its fuse; instead, I am cloaked by a wonderful, colorless mutedness that comes with recalling upon the past – one, that only I can see, my memory: like an Eye that grows in You; so that I may see you, so that I may hold you.

And so that after days and days of walking this path, I can hold to me the assurance that my feet have more than once before touched and survived through the paving of this terrain, which gives me the courage that I will again, tonight, live through to make it home, that I will not yet lose, the burden of my remembering body - that I will not lose that keenness, of not at all being ready, though suffering, to let go.

- though this is all just simply the comfort of a familiarity, for any thing brings anything, and I am not a visionary, a clairvoyant. And I am near-sighted.

3. And now I pass through the luminescent breath of a familiar jewelry store window, all yellow with air dappled just so in the way that I know very well, a mini cosmos that breathes the unpredictability of the melding of memory and moment into the mist that is my air and surround, And it grips me. And suddenly, hopelessly, my inattention is again bothered by the smallest of thoughts of you: And so I immediately explode into a forest of fires egregiously trembling. And Now, as I walk, the land escapes beneath me as if churned into the carbon of cinder; black, uniform and ostensibly uninteresting – just an overgrown shadow – but in actuality it is dreadfully, fatalistically rich with the rage of chemical metamorphosis, strict in its new unchangeable state, fantastic in its mark of the Eternal - Blood of the Eternal: the ultimate genetic codification of the present. I am here, now. And my eyes are open.

4. And so I am fearfully aware again that I cannot secure my body; and even worse, that if I cannot own my own even death, how could I ever been foolish enough to think I could have belonged to you: a wind blows, and I feel the secrets of the universe hiding in the movement of the passing of each breathing breath. And I seek to find the universe’s DNA, its truth, and to incubate it within the darkness of my heart, where it might rest, still and radiating. But I know this would require my heart to exist in a timelessness that only in death can I imagine being fully realized, a system of entering that I will not be able to exit, a truly unmarked path - devoid of memories - so that I will not be able to exist in any other moment except in the one in which I am myself, on my way to dying, complete and unprotected.

5. ()

6. Then, I take another turn - though this one a quite literal - and perhaps then, to some, more real - one: And I walk down a thicketed, cherry-scented path, a path that has always been advertised and safer, but that I have rarely ever been down, if ever at all, in my effervescent obstinance - and yet I go, and yet I wonder, as I walk down this block, as one does when she descends into the constant unknown -  if I will begin to know it: If I will begin to know it in that ecstatic way in which I had begun to know you, that in grasping at all of the details in all of their collections, in the touching and the realizing of all its shapes; that in the sheer knowing of it somehow I will be brought closer to it by its own very power, and brought closer to this body of you and the present through my very presence. If I will accomplish the impossible and summon, you: A thicket of blood escapes from my nose, now - a response to the cold, which  to many may appear a mere nuisance, but to me, in this incredibly clean, fresh moment, looks like a reminder of the world that moves ecstatically through me; and of all the blood in all of the bodies that I have ever felt rush.

7. And then?: the newness of it makes me feel like a child, and for some reason with this, very naked. And I am again shaken, soddenly, by the reminders of my profound loneliness, as if they are actual hands that seize me now.

They are attempting to eternally chain me.

So I use them. And I use them justify the taking of this unmarked path for two reasons which I find to be good - one of which is very simple, both of which are very (seemingly) humanly natural: to resist death for a bit longer, to hold you closer to, (1) maybe see you once more, and (2) because I finally looked up and realized that maybe I want my loneliness, maybe I should savor my solitude, because in it I am then able to summon you, and this path, realizing it was simply there, on my way: another vision in the infinity to discover.

8. I miss you and that is not in my power.

9. >

And an infestation of a new thought begins to trickle in, as I am still walking and living in my walk for the very first time in a long time: I am alive and a pestilence of presence breeds through my aching pores. For it is a new walk, a walk that seems to transcend the mere practices of survival, of the encumbering of memories, and that submits to an urgency within me which somehow, in a way, feels larger than most: The tangles of my life mix with the tangles of yours, in some way, in some order, Carving our marble words from the breath of life, Forever. And so I so you are partially responsible for sustaining me for all of these moments longer that lead to me finally taking the path home which sees this moment in which my words to you are written, and you must come into and claim your rightful power:

10. a dog in a park wails. a dog in a park, behind a fence, cowers. The light along this dog is stringent and alive. I am stringent and alive, beneath a grove of trees that leave shadows like overgrown olives, chewing a piece of spearmint. Everything, in the darkness, is sheer; Everything, is momentous. The leaves leave a puddle of spotted shade around me and I hold my nose, watching us creatures, bleeding, and begin to cry - gently - at the universe turning. A bitter-looking man covered in shadow walks over towards me and looks me in the eyes, and weeps with me - dryly - I know, before he continues to move on past. And The yellow eyes of The Hound are still Forever shining.

11.  ~ / =

12. 15 Dec

13.

Beloved:

There are certain things that we are not taught, but that we just are: wanting, breathing, rhythmic, defecating and consuming - these are among some of the first that come to mind, all caught in the heat-filled spillage of how we all begin to negotiate our existence. Sure, they are taught to us in the sense of when we experience them – but, for them there are – distinctively, palpably – no feasible preparations, and choice at the simplest level seems irrelevant, because even if we can convince ourselves that we choose to live, we did not choose life. I truly believe this to be so: I believe that when we first accept the rigorous task of living, we lay ourselves beneath the shadowy mercy of life’s wicker, in the arms of our mother, and say: I do not know where you are going, but by god, please take me with you in all of your burning. And it does, for however long that it will, until we die. And we scream and cry and croak and tremble, in the meantime. And all of this, my dear, to me, seems saliently choiceless.

14. So Here is another thought that will not escape from my mind: life seems multiplicative, proliferate by its very nature, and this abounding feeling is only more strongly suggested as I stare out of this cellular-like capsule that is this train car that carries me through what seems to be an endlessness of falling rainwater – every time a drop has finally slid off that last existing edge of the glass, a field more arises. And thus every facet of imagery that penetrates my eye, even the most sterile of it, seems coated in the existence of this frenetic, kaleidoscopic madness of life constantly reproducing, and it extends all the way into even the most tender and intimate of realities, even ours –

15. Like the rain on the glass, we cannot help ourselves: in one way or another, we form syntheses, extensions organic and inorganic alike, that affirm that we are connected to and connect us to this truth of constant generation: I am not only just talking about our sex, but also your music, my words, and every last excrement of our feeble selves.

16. And, the funny thing is: By the time that we have processed what it is that we have chosen, the choice has been made. If experience could be analogized into the process and pattern of one’s breath it would be in the inhale of the breath that our surrender to our experience occurs, and in the exhale that our recognition of the “choice” we have made to experience it materializes. Most interestingly, and importantly,however  the space between these two moments, which is arguably infinitesimal, and perhaps even indistinguishable: it is the precious core at which where the truth of the reality of this process of breathing (the process of existing) resides in its entirety. The moment between the present and the present. And my contemplation of all of this right now, in this writing to you, is just a prolonged form - a melodic incantation - of my surrender to this reality of the breadth of our human existence. What I mean to say is: by the time I had fully processed that I have chosen you, accepted you, wanted you and yearned for you; I realized that I had always been already yours.

17. How does this moment occur? It begins always the same: Like this: In your facial undulations when my fingers feel you; (that I love) the dark swamp and the sun that forms your eye and its flicker, and the way that I starve for your words and intelligences constantly, unyieldingly, like a child just born who yearns for milk.

18. But none of this compares to what follows: always completely unexpectedly, and painfully: that explosive sensation; the fervent tingling of mettle, the colorful organic fission that forms the blood that squirts and escapes from my heart in an impassioned technicolor; that charges with the earnestness of a depraved prisoner into freedom, or of the thirst of a cluster of plant for which the sensation of drinking water is essential, but much like swallowing sand: The relief that does not come without immense pain. And It is that painful confusion and convulsion of a life force that shakes me – that uncalculated balance of diametric impulses, those strands of inconsiderate experiential violences in which I simply just am, though all I seem to think about day and night is the choice to be, dramatically considering of how to take my own life because I am fearful of its unparalleled largeness, and intensity–

19. And then something happens, like you simply glancing in my direction. And I hate it. Because I realize; such contradictions, such confusions of feeling and thought, such things could never be due to choice: they are the machinations of fate, my love, and you - are the universe that holds me in all of its terrific darkness. And that childish dance – of how we touch each other, that is existence. And the suggestion of a choice, in that all, has been perhaps the biggest of all my self-deceptions.

20. In space, the planets revolve around the sun, taking turns for its warmth and the nurturing emanation of its electricity, for its erotic sprinkles; the breeding of the most fertile gases.

21. That is how I seek for a fire within you, for an all that I can live for through sustained revolutions, over and over and over; and that you came to me when most unexpected – you, the everything that came to be out of truly nothing.

22. But when the sun dies, as all things eventually must – the animals, the butterflies, you and I – only the darkness will still exist and imbue everything with an urgency that has no forethought. And it is with this death and this spreading of uniform nothingness will return and that that pureness from which you were able to come to me, and me to you, will finally be revealed to us that is at that moment which now seems unfathomable– the return of that pure darkness that exists without interruption or distinction – the ceaseless swallow. The fuelless force.

23. And when that occurs, when the fire finally falls to die, I know I will lose the sensation of you, forever. But I am not afraid. In fact I am just the opposite. Because it is then that I will finally be able to fathom what it meant to love you; what it meant to wrap my existence around yours and yours around mine; a carnal whirlpool of passionate agitation.

24. And with that death I will grapple and grieve with the immeasurable richness of a lifetime; but that knowledge, in all of its shades of sadnesses, will bring a fearlessness that makes me anticipate your loss with a great, sickening excitement; and I almost feel ashamed for the sheer naturalness of my perversion.

25. But in the meantime, the fire of life that I seek within you and for you in the movement of our existences is consistently revealed to me in these beautiful, tender, painful glimpses of you that I realize, are all, too, eventually lost - passing with the hours, day and night. Yet, in each blaze that you share with me there is an irrevocable marking that paints life onto my soul and allows for a world within me to flourish; for my humanly existence to reach the proportions of the planetary:

(25.)

[comoverde]

Part 1: Ice-Skating (Origin)

(context: this is the current introduction following the prelude in which Miranda, in a letter, professes to her beloved that by the time the letter is read she will have committed suicide. This is intended to follow the piece “Prelude.”

Beloved:

It has become that time of night when the moon is a disappearing iris in the black eye of our earth; and I am, as usual, doing nothing - but sitting in the musk of my own burgeoning solitude. The lamp has lost its light and all that is left to illuminate through onto the sheets and my few things surrounding is a ripened pour of moonlight. And in its sharing of dry water I feel a sympathy towards the moon, and I think it towards me: my face, pointed directly towards its own (as well as its) seem to bask in this mutual reflection of these affections between being and earth - somehow we have eliminated distance, here, and become somewhat one. 

For a brief moment, here, I feel a certain, careful bliss, an exquisite gripping, as I view my naked body showered in this moon’s ripe saliva - I see my hair, my eyes, my skin - all brown - have simply disappeared into the darkness - and yet this moon still seemed to find me, to see me though I am lost in the darkness, and to shine light on me and to reflect onto my very soul. And so what I am trying to come to say to you with a graciousness, my dear, is that I again have realized that it is that time of night when it is time for me to become preoccupied with thoughts of my own death and the act of my dying; when everything is just still and raw enough to really be seen; when you are asleep beside me and I know that you are safe and that I am finally safe to begin -to wonder: I wonder if I could just disappear then into this moment, following the tail end of my long last breath like a soft winding river and simply quietly slipping away; back into the oxygen surround. 

And It is with a suddenness, as sudden as the air that escapes me, that I realize that I do not have and yearn to also return to a place of my own, in which I can exist in my own wholeness without any objections; and this manic desire suddenly fills me with a rage of jealousy for this air, and for all of the parts of myself that exist as my breath; and the feeling is so disturbingly potent, as if my worst nightmare, my reality, has truly come to light: I am watching a beautiful woman having sex - that woman of course being you - with another woman, being me. And I am furiously jealous of the part of myself that is not watching myself but that is wholly with you, her, and in the space, them, creating space, together. But I feel that I am always too engrossed in the part of me that is watching?

Does this make any sense to you? I hope in some way it does so, for it is why  I have decided, that now is when I shall die. And I will explain this to you, beginning with the very origins of it: On the night that I will have died, if you can believe, I will have run across a blue slate of water: even more than a million times.

In the comfort of my own bedroom, surrounded by wine and cigarettes and relics of you: for my dear, my beloved, I will have beholdened the nature of suicide, I will have killed myself. And this careful, painfully meditated upon process of choosing one’s death: suicide, I am now able to realize because I have so truly and deeply considered it, is when my consciousness is finally held within my power, for consciousness has become a decision, mine.

This decision, however, is so horrifically devoid of any choice. For The decision to end consciousness is not accompanied by a host of other potential choices: death is the only way to die. I realize this, and I realize the terror and abject hopelessness that comes with it - I feel it. But the decision to commit suicide is nonetheless liberating because we agree to undergo the process of being attentive to this inevitable truth that we will die. We choose to awaken ourselves within this truth of death, and revel in the truth of our life being our death.

Please do not fear for me, or miss me, for I promise you, my dear, I have thought a lot about this. And After much deliberation, I have decided to call this deep, slow and arduous process of enlightenment - ironically - skimming: for living is much like this skimming over a certain cosmic ice, over the milky landscape of my very being. And I will tell you all you need to know of my life, up to this very killing, though in the unraveling of this killing I will have told you very much more, because I feel that I owe you this as the subject of all my affections, as my ultimate and dearest darling, and I have discovered the chemical concoction that will allow us to be forever more: these words that I will gift to you. And Why will I include so much that is seemingly extra? Surely not out of love for you, because I know that you will be eager to find the cause of all of this, that you never suspected coming, and I am afraid that I cannot provide you with one, for Everything is connected to everything. Imagine Each particle of light currently buzzing in our universe: each has an infinite number of sides that emanate from it and touch other particles of light, forming the adhesions that create everything. So the details of the moments of life leading up to my killing, inevitably connected to all other moments and particles and beings, will unintentionally reveal every aspect of this living life. Of living this life. And though it has not happened yet - my death - or the explanation of it - I can almost with utmost certainty predict this, this truth that hangs like a dewdrop crystal in the basin of where my heart and mind meet in the ripples of the mythic blue water that holds the truth, and all of my love.

But before I continue to go forward with such investigations through this writing, I must retract just a bit, and revisit the details of my life in my memory with this newfound sympathetic tenderness: the tenderness of knowing that it all, connected, is simply a downwards tumbling to the cessation of breath and feeling. It’s queer: because, when particularly momentous things happen in your life, things like the first experience of death, or maybe when your baby finally learns to walk, or your marriage, or the feeling of when you first tasted chocolate: moments through which you are somehow expected to grasp, even for just that brief passing, the earth in the burn of all its confused trembling, people always ask you, and want to know with such earnest desperation, what you have learned, now that you are past it, now that you are older -  but I don’t know which details are more important than others: the brown of my eyes, the nakedness of my unclothed body of nitrogenous yoke, or the almost-angrily churning nucleus of all thoughts of you that seemed to penetrate me moment by moment: I realized, in this flattening of the supposed hierarchy of all detail, that, quite simply: everything is momentous. And I have always been older, and lost somewhere-elsewhere from an attentiveness to this funny fact about the nature of the moment, but still truly living: ice-skating, on this blue material field of life; where everything on the surface is but a fragile, breakable reflection of itself and each other, and where everything is melded into a clear, smooth and uniform sheet that somehow, keeps and has kept me, buoyant, and moving.

And so I guess I should resist the erroneous urge not only share something stupendous that I have gathered in this very moment of beginning to contemplate my death for the sake of respect to all which is momentous, but this moment, which may just be the fresh finish line in the circle of my consciousness, this moment of my chosen death, still grips and plays with me. But in this plane of living rendered dimensionless because there is just too much dimension to know where one begins and the next ends, I am lost: because in the absence of my living, how will I be able to articulate the meaning of the absence of myself, if I am gone? The loss of mind, matter, and of body. I suppose, I can only articulate, in smaller and smaller, and more fragile pieces, asymptotically, infinitely, that eternity of what it is like to approach the end line. My end line. Of what it is like, up to the very moment of the end of life, what it is like to die. And so, not only for the sake of extracting some higher meaning from the momentous, but also in attempting to do the impossible of describing to you the very nature of my absence, my own disappearance, I will reveal to you, life in its ultimate hypocrisy that I have probably already been very redundant about, many times over: that in the rumination of my dying, I will teach to both of us what it means to be forever living.

In some universe, this could make sense. Perhaps, I nurture the foolish hopefulness, that it could even be so in our universe: that we could somehow through this project of mine become eternal. Because in our life, if we simply move, and breathe, the strangest things can happen; and we may find ourselves stumbling upon the most peculiar revelations of truth. I liken this idea to what it might be like to skate across the surface of life and by chance come upon a slice of ice that is especially thin and, as a result, cracks. Well, should we be afraid that now our life has gone to shambles, that the truth has erupted, and that we shall surely fall in the chilly dark waters to our death? No, for a simple, but upon inspection strange, phenomenon: Cracked ice, in its incontinent, fragmented, broken state, hopelessly crumbling, still holds: and so somehow, water, even when it breaks, will thus still rest upon water; sustained upon itself in its multiplicity of forms. And so all the truths and tangents that we may stumble upon in this journey could be seen as forms of sustenance, the very moments that carried us into the next. And so in my life, our life, I have come to hope to think: that As I crack and break, I will be sustained for an eternity in the act of this breaking; and in this articulation of the way of my absence, we can find - in me - just another, different incarnation of me in space. And so I write these words so that, even when I undoubtedly and inevitably fall through the ice, I may still, forever, my beloved, float, with you, sustained by the very fact of our own existences.

And please, allow me the favor of being able to fail, and to contradict myself, for Everything is a failing, flailing contradiction! Everything uniform in some light will come to be broken in another. Just as an absence is only a creation of space, just as an ending is a beginning to be determined, and just as a hole is really just an inverted mountain, and just as my head is just as likely to be my ass, and up is down, and long strips of water  that are frozen into a gray bungalow over the surface of the earth forms the sky, and that is my sky, my sky of ice, because I am falling through the cracks into the water my eyes are underneath the ice and so if I look up the ice is my above, it is my Sky, the sky of my dying; My final sky. and from that sky, sometimes, and somehow, in all that water, the cracked ice still held! And so I hope, in some way, that I, will still hold, onto your heart, as if my very finger were pressed upon it, as I skim, in these words, across the blue and rosy map of our universe; all at once, through the hot and the cold, the long and the short.

Lets hope that my love continues to make this living explosive.

p.s. I realize that I will not reveal to you how it is I will have died, but I hope you agree with me, upon reaching the end of this letter, that it is of no matter, and I don’t think there are two people who could have lived happier than us.

Remember, I will be with you, and each tear I have left for you is eternal.

Yours;

M

[comoverde]

wait. (a poem)

(context: follows the piece “If We All Are”, when Miranda is committed to the LittleView Psychiatric Institute, and begins to write.)

wait.

wait

wait forever

wait a lifetime

until we all are here:

finally free