evidences of gods
I am accused always of not being on a side of an issue. In supporting love, I support hate. In listing hopes, I make underbreath lists about hopelessness. When I speak of the importance of violence, I do it by saying how we must never hurt each other. But I think I am accused unfairly, that our conception of what a conversation “is” is troubled and narrow, again I think it comes from a pre-thinking of our capacity to “believe.” I think I think that there is a great importance to the Greater, the Beyond, the More; I say and have heard said that the world around us is a distraction, a testing ground of faith, a series of evidences. But I say and have heard said that there is nothing more important than the streets we walk, the people that fill them, the movement that is this life, the struggle that is purpose. In speaking about the importance of moving beyond this world of pain and hurt, there is a tunnel that echoes the joys of being in life. Like children who are taught manipulation for the first time, that everything is somehow a button that makes a sound or causes movement or speaks the wind to blow, metal bolts and plastic buttons, flickering lights burning and pleasure hovering over food with hands hanging in service of us, waiting. Do you ever leave your body forgotten, do you notice how it tries to become forgotten when we are speaking or thinking or unnoticing of it? Leaning and hanging, putting hands in pockets all the way up to the shoulders then legs tie around each other, each trying to become invisible our torso compacting and all the while leaking blood ribs ripping from flesh, shattered bone leaking fluids we didn’t know we were made of: i thought we were all blood, bags of blood thick what is this other stuff. An apology.
We kiss on space. Put posters on wall and draw water and electricity, fill the air with sound and voice a ceaseless series of repairs, trying to keep the ceilings from bowing, the walls from snapping, the floor from falling away into nothing, we are filled with vibration! And these kids, god these kids, who are busy manipulating, touching their fingers together next to their ears wondering where the sound comes from and picking up stones and wondering the difference between a thing being attached and a thing being unattached. This city is filled with so much love, a bakery of boys of family, roles and laughter and a conversation, laughing pointing out bullet holes, “that’s where the soldiers shot from” and “this is where the tanks drove through the streets” and “these are the doors we had to repair” and “this is one of us who is dead now” and “that is the sky, it is exactly the same today as it was then” and “this is my family” and “this is my son” and “this is my pride it cannot be taken from me,” all smiling. How can you talk about hopelessness without talking about hope? How can you talk about hope without talking about hopelessness how can I call for violence in the face of family and love, knowing that that child manipulating the surfaces around him aurora borealis of fire, who must die and who must live and it’s all in the wrong fucking dialect, right? The wrong words, there are no words, no answers. There is only this place its beauty these spaces and buildings that look to touch but up close form tunnels and stairs and an irregularity, a growth, the stretch-marks of growth. Space that is planned and built or space that grows, negative space left between buildings that becomes filled with spiders’ webs that becomes cleared out and filled with the wooden legs of arm chairs that becomes filled with wooden legs of arm chairs and clay pots that become filled with wooden legs of arm chairs and clay pots and hanging laundry that is a tiny landscape of love where two teenagers come at night to make love in a city where everyone is filled with love but making love is forbidden.
We perhaps are a machine of making love, penis into vagina yes, but different unlike running water and unlike light leaking from bulbs. Perhaps all of everything is an obstacle of love and eventually filled to bursting, unable to bend your elbows or your knees, waddling with love, limping with love, eyes squeezed shut with love dick filled solid with love ears caulifloured with love fingers webbed with love, you will come upon a sharp surface and burst and lie in a pool that only the empty will notice and come to stand in and breathe in silence. You’ve seen it before, a boy or a girl on the floor, shaking and quivering and people standing around him or her seeming somehow to be eating without moving
A desire to paint the walls, to–have you ever seen those tiny little balls of lint and dust? they roll around and collect and grow slowly slowly, crumbs of food and leftover flakes of body juice, tiny paper that is specifically crumpled they slowly come to a kind of life. Not pissing and shitting life, or even complaining life, not even sadness life but the life that is the most boiled down: the need to find each other and grow and become larger balls of lint and dust, they are not feeling life they are not hunger life, only the have to touch and tangle life, it’s amazing to me that we do not tangle more, all the things we hang on our bodies colors and cloths and hair and eyelashes, our fingers which are like living strings how do we keep from all becoming like lint, getting cum in our hair and tiny bugs in our eyes, filling our mouths with dust and rocks and stones, our fingers skeletally clung to our genitals ceaselessly hanging and then sticking to each other fingers tied around fingers around clumps of hair, toes tangled in someone’s unshaven mound of pubic hair and a splatter of peanut butter holding two people together one by her dress the other by her elbow, why don’t lint balls grow to the size of buildings, a national disaster, how do we keep to ourselves?
I want to repaint the colors of everything, you know, just so people know I’m here… Because I think that’s what it all comes back to for me: a crippling unending fear of being forgotten, of waking up one day and no one knowing my name and me unable to speak language anymore. A desire, wholly, to be loved and maybe adored. This city, these people are as all people: filled infinitely with hope as with hopelessness. As they hate, as I hate, I also love but I do not know how. I struggle to make sense of the irony using words because words are a broken series of conveniences, labels for our body to know “a book” from “a door,” but not knowing truly either thing, not knowing as a child how pages can be turned and bolts can be pushed and how everything is a button. I wonder, always when I am walking, at all the places where the young in this city come at night to kiss and cry, girls taking off the scarves and dresses from their bodies, feeling only once everyday the feeling of air on their hair and legs, the stairs that are there one day that are gone the next, this city that is shifting constantly and luring young love into corners where they become trapped and forced to engage in ceaseless love-making in silence and darkness in tiny cubes that become the living cells for the bricks and stones that are nablus