26 April 2016

Postcard 59

I'm feeling lost in the cold of it all. I'm walking stiff and sore like an old meteor -- each facing our own dawn. I know I'm burning up but my rosacea fingers are tingling and numb. I'm feeling lost. Everywhere are subtle coercions. Each thing that pulls on me has its own warmth, but every pull is pain. I doubt my tenacity and I'm feeling lost. My brittle bones seek the flex of whirl; my soft flesh seeks a fire. The dust that makes me rattles against this plane like trapped electrons. I'm feeling lost with my madness tamped and tamped, my seek suppressed. I'm feeling lost but not, in space, directionless, not cold and flying forward in my own whirl, not pulling my own dust. I'm feeling lost between orbits and the pain is surprising.
My name is I have no name
My home is I am a stone in space
My family is I am alone
My pain is holding on of course.
My pain is holding course and my pain is letting go.
My pain is a flex of hot and cold.
It seems there's countless dust in space, not moving really, but drawing near or away. Each with pull and direction. Burning out and free with the borders of space a cold glowing dawn. Swirling together colliding, the fast coming horizon of a new day.
I'm feeling lost, so might you be, but whirl is king or queen and, cold or hot, is you and me.

11 April 2016

Postcard 58

On the first day, you were clumsy and awkward. The wrong side of you hardened, like a wounded tree, You were rigid in that vernal desert stillness. You didn't need a rising sun on that first day. What did you need? You collapsed like the snap of a whip. That first day was so hard on you. The other days may have been worse, but that first was the hardest, an uncompromising day.
On the second day you dreamt and wandered. You wandered like an Israelite. You wrestled through forty days of fever dreams. You lay on the cool floor. Your stern father came, contentious. On that second day your father came and you turned him away. Your brother too, came, suborn and pleading. On the second day your brother came. You embraced him and asked him to leave. He said farewell with a kiss on the cheek. On that long second day your lover came. We've never touched, she said, though lovers, you insisted, you were. That night the moon waxed full. That night the fever broke and you awoke. She sat beside you in a chair combing oil through her long hair.
On the third and final day, the sun was weak. It shared the sky with that gravid moon. On that third day you gave fond farewells to everyone. Your eyes were like a calm and kind embrace. You father you forgave. Your brother you forgave. Your lover, you betrothed. And even me, a guilty friend beside you, you blessed with joy.
We mourn joyfully and the moon is brighter still with the blushing of the setting sun.

04 April 2016

Postcard 57

I'm trying to call out. I'm trying to cry with balance, long and straight. My voice may be jagged and brittle, but my tears fall plumb and true. This world is queer. That's right -- everyone's a fag, a dyke, a tranny, or a stud. Put on our boots, lets play at men. Put on shirts and pants and belts and hats. i'll play at me. What's that? A gun? You play at you. The world's a stage, hot lamps and grease. What boards are these? Theater of the mad, theater of war, operating theater. Theater of the absurd. The world as stage; do as you please. "Death's the final word." I hope you catch my meaning. I'm not a real straight shooter, though I try. When I shoot my arrow into the air, beyond my sight, I have been told my aim's too high. But with your gun and me with my bow, is it more important where it lands or thats its fired with care. My rhyme is broken, my rhythm's bent. The world is queer etc. Is that a truth or is it more important what I meant? What I meant was this: Life is pain (except when its not). Any truth tied to another will be false more often than not. We are mostly what we are not. Be wild and free in tyranny. Be fragile and clear in a blizzard. Be a slow ceiling fan over passion. Be a faggot at the conference table. The pebble for the saw in the trunk of a tree. Be frightened at a hot meal and a water bed. Shoot all your arrows vertically. When you try to be straight, be whirl. I'll play you. You play her, and she'll give a go at being me.