I am always so …

by howaretheyfor

I am always so busy storying space; populating far away buildings with people and forces that hold them, confident in their material. Unthinking of the creaking and the floating, the rules falling apart, unthinking of my own story. I am interested in voice: the spoken and the misspoken: the drafts remembered from dreams: the voice that made kites and hookah smoke and defined reason. Defined story, and gave the world a momentum. There are too many ways to speak life its tastes its feelings its perspectives, There are great reasons to man, a handspread history that infers and voices truth, there are small reasons to man, the liquid glass that holds us in our skin and keeps us from becoming juice, collecting beads of dust that make us less clear but more solid. Speaking and meeting, I want to conjugate the great and the small to each other, place them and in my own voiced motions breathe. There is an important [something] that connects breathing and voicing that is more than the mouth and throat, I think…

Trying to listen for the voice that voices me, I want to do. Learn language, speak to strangers, teach, write, and reconcile hate. Knowing, somehow, of the things today that seem wrong, I want to find a way to make sense of them using myself. To be clear: myself is my body, my voice, my breath. There is only an unending search for answer that leads eventually to a chosen ignorance that leads eventually to a chosen satisfaction. I try to evade that ignorance. All ready I have ceased to doubt the rising of the sun and the motion of my lungs, the seeing of my eyes and the toughness of surface. My body and my mind are constantly settling, but it is my intention to try as hard as I can to avoid a complete dispersion, to unbecome a thin dust in the water of expectation.

So I will smear, smudge, curdle, breathe too deeply and voice too loudly, move too quickly and kill for a love and make love for a hate. Contort my fingers into keyholes to open rooms that are unfurnished except for the sound of static. Try to spit in people’s mouths, and always go out of my way to carry and push and bear packages and plastic bags, handfuls of debris and water tied in packages of skin for other people. I will vibrate and press my eyes up against other eyes until we congeal together and backing away leave two thin stream of eye that people will get stuck in their hair and we screaming, “my eyes!,” will be sightless, I will pray to every god and kiss men who are afraid to kiss men.

I will be everything that I desire to be and unlet the forces of stability and removement trudge me on buying, and speaking other people’s jokes. There are so many people that hurt and who seem to be in a position of getting-fucked. I want to know why. There are so many people who walk with their heads faced down, and so many who walk with their heads faced up, I want to know why, there are sunsets that look like fig and sunrises that look like vinegar, I want to know why. I want to understand how one thing can  be “like” another thing, why people hold close to each other in cities superpopulated, why we choose to live and not die, biology of broken bodies, cut and punctured, smushed.

And I don’t really want to do any of it alone, so yeah. I hope I will continue to write here, and if I do, I hope that some of you will hear some of yourselves in what I say and choose to ask me, “where are you, I’ll be there soon”

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