moebius, cast, expanded

with my feet
I patch the streets
of this frayed city,
with my eyes
I spin strands
of words to embroider
the beauty of its decay
on the fabric of my mind.

I'm menstruating and
as my womb wanes,
I contemplate what else
needs help to reincarnate.
sometimes I can't decide
if humanity should be saved.

listen to the noises created by voices
raised in contempt of what's become
of this over-complicated world.
when do the idle sounds
morph into ideas with more
than curled fingers,
and expand into the corporeal
as more than a raised fist,
but perhaps as an extended hand?

proverbial, we sit in the pot,
the water will get hot,
we'll argue about the temperature,
but get out we will not.
decisively childless,
I can't help but mother
Earth and her offspring,
but damn if we aren't the asshole teens
of creation.

human existence
can be summed up
in many ways,
reduced to mathematical
child's play;
a mere twist in a ring
results in endless
cycling.

creating infinity
for its own sake,
sometimes life
feels like the same mistake;
the same lesson unlearned,
a stationary wheel,
vehemently turned.

(whence you came,
again return.)

when this spell is finally cast,
no one will know how clumsy
my occult is.
do you know how unclean I am?
I am of the Earth,
and the Earth is dirt;
so commit me unto her.

when my skull is empty
and all the soft parts have gone rotten,
what will become of my memory?
what will be forgotten?
sometimes I live dirty;
right now, I clean.

I've been selfish with my language arts,
using audiences as my confessional,
and here I am again with more sins;
but Father Reader and or Listener,
I want to go deeper than my last lover
when I call myself out.
let me do the verbs I use
or I curse myself with hypocrisy.

there's hope in the message
that I feverishly relate.
here's some words on which
to meditate:

I am inhalation,
the approximation
of what's there
when nothing is left;
I am exhalation,
the personification
of divine breath.
I am the new moon,
eager to be full;
I am the voice inside,
the one that signals
when to push, when to pull.
I am above, beneath,
between and through;
I am the universe,
and so are you.

let me do more
than hear you
if this propaganda
is well received;
language and art
can be good magic
if well conceived.
take my words,
my eggs,
you supply the seed;
together, we'll become pregnant
and propagate,
with nothing but good deeds.
blind optimism, yes, this may be,
but to affect change we must first believe
that we create our own reality,
that everything is within our own ability,

if we start with small things,
and then proceed.

rich

my mind feels like small hands
unable to hold the many coins
spewing from the mouth
of the universe's muse machine
my words an inadequate pail
and now I prepare myself for
the waking world having not slept
I want to fling the coins into the air
to be caught by passers-by
and share them with friends

this kiss off

eyes slip over me
like an oil spill
and render me
slippery when wetted
by drunken perception

what are you playing at?
this is not a game, player

to save you from my womanhood
you push me onto others
unsure how my standards
would manifest themselves on you
my clit throbs with the possibility
that someone could love me for my politics

"all of which you love will blow away" - graffiti found on overpass

"all of which you love will blow away" - graffiti found on overpass.

blow away like what? leaves? an ill-fitted hat? cocaine in a drafty room? I don't understand how this is profound but it strikes me as unreasonably sad and I wonder at what compelled the author to share this with the general automobile-driving masses. aren't they trapped enough in those metal coffins?

"all of which you love will blow away"

or is it that love is free and as such it can't be contained, comprised of tiny, complete particles too light to comply with gravity, only heavy in large quantities where self-importance is either exaggerated or underrated by putting too much stock in another.

"all of which you love will blow away"

maybe it's comically sexual, like all those who love you will blow away. yeah, blow away, honey, yeah, just like that.

a single confusing line: "all of which you love will blow away"

really. I don't get it. it makes me wonder at the missives I've left on walls from a compulsion to share with a captive audience -- in a bathroom, a warehouse wall, not an overpass, haven't done that yet. maybe my message was just as simply confusing, maybe it made sense at the time.

what would I share with those that see an overpass? I'm not so sure, probably something political because I'm like that.

it's bad magic, sometimes, words. simple phrases that I don't understand possess me, and so I invent my own meaning. I guess that's the point. so yeah,

I want to be blown away.

yeah.

moebius, cast

human existence
can be summed up
in many ways,
reduced to mathematical
child's play:
a mere twist in a ring
results in endless
cycling.

creating infinity
for its own sake,
sometimes life
feels like the same mistake:
the same lesson unlearned,
a stationary wheel
vehemently turned.

(whence you came,
peripheral,
again return

to convenience)

when this spell is finally cast,
no one will know how clumsy my occult is.
do you know how unclean I am?
I am of the Earth
and the Earth is dirt,

so

commit me unto her.

when my skull is empty
and all the soft parts have gone rotten
what will become of my memory,
what will be forgotten?

sometimes I live dirty;
right now, I clean...

so

here's a message
I'd like to relate
some words on which
to meditate:

I am inhalation,
the approximation
of what's there
when nothing is left;
I am exhalation,
the personification
of divine breath.
I am the new moon,
eager to be full;
I am the voice inside,
the one that signals
when to push,
when to pull.
I am above, beneath,
between and through;
I am the universe
and so are you.