slowly it pours
beautiful brown boy with eyelashes that tangle with wishes like whispers that buzz on you. You collect broken glass in plastic bottles, and in the night you dream them together, a great glass horse that will take you away with the rising of the sun with wishes like whispers you still believe that you can fall asleep and wake up someplace completely else.
Man with no legs with your hands wrapped around my ankles you say, “I still believe the sun might not come out, that I might wake up tomorrow no longer a broken man, but a machine of the ocean made of gas and fearful of the light, I will eat color. And the mermaids will worship in my passing as grains of dust in great wind I will be the fleeting orgasm of the ocean.”
Crippled old lady picking at the walls with her nails, trying to build her skin anew you listen to the sounds that are stuck in between those spaces, in the woods and plasters and concretes, the sounds that the walls keep for itself not letting pass through to the listeners on the otherside. The wall you pick at now is filled with only the final seconds of a man’s orgasm, ameed has made love to his wife exactly every two weeks for 7 years, all other sounds pass the squeakings and chirpings and talkings, things falling and step takings yelling at children but that final groan and grunt and drop the wall has kept for itself. Crippled old lady picking at the walls with your nails, licking the plaster and sticking it to your bones for lack of skin covered in ameed’s final sound
The sky above this city is empty. Like all things unpresent that are felt, homesicknesses and absent people, this city has above it a great negative space and I wonder everyday somehow at it. How it does not become filled with wires and balloons and taller buildings, it seems unhuman to let the great bowl of nablus’s sky go unfilled with shit and filth, wires and pipes trying to suffocate this city there will come a day when we live in cloud and like great sick breaths, we will ferment; I listened to a bee dying in a can of coke today, buzzing and buzzing, brushing up against the sides getting syrup on its wings eventually it slowed and the aluminum humming ended all at once with a sound unlike all the sounds that characterized the bee’s life. A stop and a wet click; Do all things end in specific sound, cut short an end sound;
Is there hate in the world to battle against the love or is there love in the world to battle against the hate? Again, all these questions are phrased wrong, necessarily wrong. They come together, hate is a love as love is a hate, you cannot love something without hating something else. You cannot believe something without disbelieving something else my muscles are great pink electric slugs that live in my bones. They do my bidding. We do things. To life, we do things to the space around us, we put labels on things and try to make sense of our feelings and thoughts, we build and create and live and die and struggle and love and in certain perspectives we squalor in filth, we shit and get piss on ourselves, we beat our friends and forget our dreams and become boring and uninteresting and easily distracted, forgetting what it was like to be a child ceaselessly curious about everything and in other perspectives we are quietly beautiful, handing customers candy over counters with your hands, smiling and looking at strangers, pausing a moment before stepping into your home filled with children and husbands filled with love and excitement to be apart of life and in other perspectives we build walls around people, we make them necklaces of concrete and pierce their flesh with chains of barbed wire and leave stains on its earth and boys with guns at all its holes. In perspective, everything changes yet we tend constantly and unendingly toward making it simple, toward a single perspective toward a black and a white and a right and a wrong and that’s why falling in love is so great. Because your perspective becomes hyper localized, no longer looking for meaning and searching for answers you are as a newborn baby again hungry for food and thirsty for milk and lonely for touch, you don’t need to see all the passing trees their bark and leaves there is only a vibrating feeling inside of you that is god;
hungry for food and thirsty for milk and lonely for touch, really though, why do we stop dreaming? Why do we give up, lose faith in our legs and bodies, why do we stop dreaming becoming curious of the horizons walking toward purple and green heat storms, a desire to be in and apart of everything. A high school question, a 20 year old question, but I ask it again and again, all I want in life is to speak to move and speak and speak to little children whose bodies are the keys of god their fingers the perfect size for prying into the cracks of the earth, their bodies small enough to go forgotten pushed into the dark spaces opening doors where the air speaks its hunger, no longer drinking tears off our cheeks and semen off our stomachs in silence, but loud and demanding, sucking the juice through our pores the air eats in that place.
Wishes like whispers though soft are heard by someone somewhere, right? Hope, belief, better to ask the questions that have no answers or to find answers for the questions that do? Neither better neither worse, believing both sides, recognizing the absence of an answer
By means of the external sense (a property of the mind), we represent to ourselves objects as without us, and these all in space… The internal sense, by means of which the mind contemplates itself or its internal state, gives, indeed, no intuition of the soul as an object; yet there is nevertheless a determinate form, under which alone the contemplation of our internal state is possible.
My feelings, my thoughts, my magnetisms. I am inadequate to make sense of myself. I am not enough