Art I Persephone? 

White hot,  the world blinks

I am awake and aware and I

Climb.  Beyond the dark well

Of eternity.  Into a world gone

White entirely.  Holy.  Brevity

Of purpose.  Hold
On to me.  I will show thee,

The sleep within,  the sight and

Light and pieces of me.  And

When you find yourself adrift

Call to me,  call my name

Call from darkness,  from the

Night’s morning mourning
Me and I ask that you trust me,

Fall off the ledge of reality and

Let me break your body,  shatter

Your mind AGAINST the sea.

And I – I am reassuring you,

Only then will you be free.

After all art I not Persephone?
Art I Persephone?

This perspective

I stand alone.

Whitewash the world
reflects back a blank canvas,
And I paint the vibration
of my thoughts upon it.

My thoughts create
the people and the grass, 
the sky and the gravity, 
the hunger and the sadness,
the ultimate whine of emotion. 

My thoughts create my fears, 
intense and longing, 
wide-eyed and full, 
brilliant and decadent. 

My thoughts create
and I am unmade and lost in them
for they consume me, 
mountains pile on me stretching into infinity
for every want ever desired and not, 
every decision done and discarded, 
every possibility sits upon me, 
weightless until the weight of all of them crush me
slowly in the illusion of their reality. 

And I am unmade and become them,
so buried beneath myself created ideations
I am relegated to ideation itself, 
and my thoughts create more of me, 
all in aid of trying to find me.

And thus I am unmade. 

Light,  however,  glimmers periodically. 

The people I created with thought
walk and talk
with will of their own, 
as if their holographic construction
evolved into actual sentience, 
and I interact until I perceive them as the reality. 

And then I love and hate them, 
worry and coddle them, 
feel the persecution of them,
until I am buffed by their own thought forms
and I am further unmade.

Then light gleams, a single clear ray. 

I fall in love, 
and she is so bright
inside my closed eyes,

the lightness fills my soul
and it shines out my chest, 
between my breasts, 
and I am momentarily whole. 
For a moment I am
unburdened
by the infinite mountain
of thought debris. 

And I shine, 
and I glow, 
and I absolutely expand
into a feeling of airiness. 
I feel as if I were light and air.  For a moment.

For a moment. 

She is there, 
just not here, 
here she is dense,  a creation,
and one that hurts even as it
brightens me,  inspires me.
She looks like a creation of this world, 
and I see her with open eyes
And thorny flaws
and skin so precious a color I want to weep at the sight of it
for it is so precious to me. 

I enjoy her smile, 
bask in the light it throws, 
and I revel in each and every
gentle gesture she makes
towards me. 

And I am undone.  I unravel, 
I literally unwind all the ropes of
pain and anguish
each infinite whim and thought
conjured to bind me, 
and it feels like falling, 
but I am mere whittled away, 
for a moment at a time,
into what I was, 
until my creation overpowered me.

And that is how you see heaven I think, 
see past the illusion,
see beyond your own minds expression, 
and glimpse the other side. 
Glimpse the next realm, 
another reality,  the other world. 
The other’s world. 

I felt God when I I looked upon her, 
eyes wide open and tightly shut,  and. . . 

. . .   And I think for a moment she saw me,
from her own world,
from beneath her own infinite mountain, 
from her own living grave,  I think she saw me. 

And I was with her in some timeless place for a time.
Until we let the thought forms
back in and they distracted us
into separation. 

The world is whitewashed
beneath the paint and
peeling paper and
splattered beginnings,
heeded endings. 
The world is empty
and I mask the emptiness
with imagination painted like
so much acrylic scree
stuck to the thing. 

And the people are just people, 
extensions of me only
as they are mine mind
come to life. 

Until I saw one and chose to see, 
loved one and chose to disclose.
Until I opened my eyes to
the illusion of the mountain, 
so infinite
and heavy
and imaginary.

I walk the dusky land of embittered snow; scattered like tear dust upon this barren landscape, wind whipping white about me, and eyes the only dark spot in this storm. I walk across the winter land as if warm, the cold doesn’t touch me. The cold feel like home hearth. And when I fall in the embrace of the grateful ground, I scatter the snow, like confetti, or feathers, and they bloom out about me like bomb smoke. And I am still warm.

Do you taste it yet? The taste of the warm snow in your mouth? Is the nonsense finally making sense, or do you sense but inanity and pride? I am pride. I am pride and prejudice against the world made of consequential things like mice wings and catalogs about blogs and whining sugar pane. And among the fluff of snow like glitter I am home among the wide eyed litter of human smiles and plushies wiles and know there is nothing more important than this. This, this kiss of death a brush your breath. Kiss me. Kill logic. Embrace the strange.

And when you are done, do it again. And you shall never be the same. And I shall never be the same. For when you do it again, nothing and everything will change.

love needs the light.

its like I loved,

in a dark place.

she was my heart,

before her I didn’t know

I had one. she grew there,

in my chest, like a feathered

thing, a beating drum,

and she showed it to me.

she showed me what a heart

is. she showed me

and I learned

and I surpassed her.

 

she left me,

in a dark place.

when she left I

perceived

she took the light

with her, and I was alone.

and I still had my heart,

which was her

and it ached

in the absence of her.

and it beat sluggishly,

inconsistently,

intermittently.

I could feel it in my chest,

hear it in my skin,

the flutter of it’s magnanimity,

made me worry.

 

I forgave her,

and I blamed her,

and I bade her,

return to me.

but only silently,

and she,

she never did,

until I had become

happy,

and she sad

and I was moved on.

 

and then she wrote,

me claimed love

for me, spoke

love for me,

achingly,

wantingly,

and I was angry,

and I was pain,

and I was scared,

and I refused her.

 

and I left her

in a dark place.

get out, I said,

yourself.

I did.

 

and when she’d gone

silent I remembered

how I loved,

how my heart,

beat as her,

personified as her,

and that I loved her.

 

and how it just wasn’t

enough, to love

in the dark. love

needs light

to grow.

Prurient

I want you to know that I am free.

I wear the shackles willingly.

In fact I put them on myself.

 

I, who locked this infinite

presence into a devil’s shell,

a wind up toy. Twist twist and

let it dance to the drums,

making merry on a flute

which creates worlds,

don’t let it die,

don’t let it stop,

don’t let it go,

just make it play for eternity

for your prurient entertainment.

 

If the drums stop

you will die.

 

And when he comes to wind you up,

the one who doesn’t know you,

but cares so much

about not letting you die,

don’t let him for he can’t break you free,

neither can I.

Only you, little rabbit,

only you can twist tune into rainbow

and ride it high.

And when you die,

you never did,

just the shell turned to stone of man

shape and countenance,

not devil, not pan,

any longer.

 

And then, he reaches into me,

tears off the scabs from my heart center,

pulls off the shutters,  

pulls open the stained glass

and bades me see.

A tree.

In the middle of me.

She is dry, not enough

wet to the soil, which remains

far too light a hue,

and not enough light,

from divinity.

Clearly the dry brittle tree

Is me.

And so add water, darker soil,

expand the cage,

open the crown

and let in such bright.

 

And then you’ll see the chains,

they wrap round my wrists in shackles,

On my left: knowledge,

On my right: perception,

And on my ankles,

The right: attachments,

and the left: my soul.

So beautiful I could die to see

Shake them off, they aren’t locked tight,

indeed hang loose and then

I am free.

 

To know

I know

nothing. Yet.

 

Bade me back,

rehang the chains.

Shackle me again.

Willingly.

 

It’s all about vulnerability.

And curiosity.

 

I am willing. I am eternal. I am free.

Ease

Ugly duckling–in my way,

Let I, let thee go far astray?

Belay, Belay!! The Way of Pay,

Bestay, Bestay!! Off and away!!

To take, and trust, all difficulty’s bay–

Sheer madness, stubbornness–masochistic I say!

Let off, let off!! Idiotish martyr you may,

Simply walk the easy road.

The Suffix ‘-ist’

Eyes upon you can be likened to a touch; and people stare.

At color of skin, teeth, hair, (like emotions painted inside the lines of my body.)

At my character, (moods fluctuate too fast for them to catch.)

At my anger, (it’s a heaviness; it repels or attracts.)

At my words, (are they intelligent enough or too much so? Do they speak a similar belief or will they inspire defensiveness?)

At my love, (it is too something, too close, to cloying, too big, too sharp, too naive, too open.)

At my body, (it encases me and so they see it first, judge accordingly.)

At my pain, (it’s the most visible but least recognizable. They think it belongs in another category.)

At my rejection, (now I behave badly and must be punished in turn with rejection.)

At my embrace, (now I am invading, antibodies arm thyselves. Interpret energy.)

At my writing, (this they praise for although this is the best reflection of me they see it as separate and therefore worthy.)

At my strength, (this they praise and see unless it’s turned against them.)

At my eyes, (like they can see to the very depths of me, but choose not to.)

People stare. I count them as they do. I feel them as they do. They watch these things that are and aren’t me and I watch them as they watch me and I grow more and more afraid. I feel the ticking of their thoughts behind their eyes, in the privacy of their brains, and  I wonder, “Do they know they know nothing? Do they know they know everything?”

I smile when I am one of those staring people. I can turn this upon myself. I stare: (At color of skin, teeth, hair, character, anger, words, love, body, pain, embrace, writing, strength, eyes.) I stare with my staring eyes, until I read between the lines, and then I close them, and begin to see. They are just me. And upon the realization that what I see is not what they be, I smile. At the people who stare. Upon the realization that what they see does and does not matter. I smile and stare and watch them stare at me, imagining the ticking of their thoughts behind their eyes, in the privacy of their brains, and I wonder, “Do they know they know nothing? Do they know they know everything?” I wonder, “Do I need to tell them, or just let them be, and who am I to judge their perspective, or judge them by what they see, just as I have the right to judge them judging me, pulling back from perspective at want or whim, and doing it accordingly, all willingly.”

I watch them stare. Eyes tracking movements made of mere reflection. I watch them stare at me staring at them. And then the whine– Until I realize it doesn’t matter. Their perspective doesn’t matter. I can’t control them, unless they be, mirror images of me, then all I can do, is what they can do, is check the movements of me, stare and be, what I want to see.

Eyes upon you can be likened to a touch; and people stare.

And I let them.