1. a never ending cosmos of triggering sound
2. gates to the threshold
3. cloisters of stars
4. stay long enough to part
5. stay long? loose this grasping
************************************************
Process Notes:
Are we still at war?
What do you believe is going on?
Why poetry?
At the base of it is perfection.
Outside of trauma, one will try to affix to something that can be consistent.
The line: a perfect pitch. A metered feet of sound. A collapse of error.
The box corners, the frame of the photograph, the cutting edge of syllabic. What we adore is symmetry, what we adore is light, what we adore is the way a feeling can be contained in this form, I have the ability to capture anything and make it beautiful.
Don't believe me then try me. I know what I am and cannot be moved.
The problem with surfaced lifetimes and nothing here is enough.
I want everything like I would retrograde back before each of us exploded, i tried to use magic to slip into a life i wanted/ realized too late doubt showing, never thinking here i could offer enough to not make you love me/ but to tear down the walls of keep it all out/ what suffers the heart is potential and the inability to reach/ like i would play against the childing beast of all/ [redacted] calls all survival a type of play/ we wanted the dawn to be our guarding/ the stars themselves to narrate our destiny
inside the poem i build an island of refuge
for i want you to see me
far more than i want you to reach me
Photograph:
Cemetery behind a chain link fence
How can one find one's mind when one looks elsewhere.
Here is what we found written in the stream:
no matter what you see here
no matter what you feel here
do not doubt
that there is nothing but love
one sound, unending
you have to want to listen
"in the Kabbalah there are names for angels that live in the intervals created by each harmonic"
"safety in the broadest sense is any sound the listener can listen to without amygdala activation"
-Sound Healing
I spend more time with the dead than with the living. They are ever present. They are the sound in between sound, interstices where the poem lives as well. We carry the current across veils. Or to say, if you hold to this reality, I was distracted from living.
But still, I was trying to meet reality. But the truth was I was often unmoored after the storm. Habits of disappearing. Who ever knows where you are in a city. I spent too much time in unsafe places but having come from unsafe places didn't notice danger. I didn't need to flee what never scared me. I was part of a design already coded and can tell you too much of endings.
I built a space for this community before we exploded so we would recall our intimacy.
I made a space for sound so we could sing our resilience.
I broke consistent because I knew already the world was spinning.
Let me tell you, between the choice of wonder and knowns, you want to lead a life of never seeing too far forward in time.
I imagine anyway. It must be a kind of peace to not know always what is coming next.
Are we still at war?
What do you believe is going on?
Why poetry?
At the base of it is perfection.
Outside of trauma, one will try to affix to something that can be consistent.
The line: a perfect pitch. A metered feet of sound. A collapse of error.
The box corners, the frame of the photograph, the cutting edge of syllabic. What we adore is symmetry, what we adore is light, what we adore is the way a feeling can be contained in this form, I have the ability to capture anything and make it beautiful.
Don't believe me then try me. I know what I am and cannot be moved.
The problem with surfaced lifetimes and nothing here is enough.
I want everything like I would retrograde back before each of us exploded, i tried to use magic to slip into a life i wanted/ realized too late doubt showing, never thinking here i could offer enough to not make you love me/ but to tear down the walls of keep it all out/ what suffers the heart is potential and the inability to reach/ like i would play against the childing beast of all/ [redacted] calls all survival a type of play/ we wanted the dawn to be our guarding/ the stars themselves to narrate our destiny
inside the poem i build an island of refuge
for i want you to see me
far more than i want you to reach me
Photograph:
Cemetery behind a chain link fence
How can one find one's mind when one looks elsewhere.
Here is what we found written in the stream:
no matter what you see here
no matter what you feel here
do not doubt
that there is nothing but love
one sound, unending
you have to want to listen
"in the Kabbalah there are names for angels that live in the intervals created by each harmonic"
"safety in the broadest sense is any sound the listener can listen to without amygdala activation"
-Sound Healing
I spend more time with the dead than with the living. They are ever present. They are the sound in between sound, interstices where the poem lives as well. We carry the current across veils. Or to say, if you hold to this reality, I was distracted from living.
But still, I was trying to meet reality. But the truth was I was often unmoored after the storm. Habits of disappearing. Who ever knows where you are in a city. I spent too much time in unsafe places but having come from unsafe places didn't notice danger. I didn't need to flee what never scared me. I was part of a design already coded and can tell you too much of endings.
I built a space for this community before we exploded so we would recall our intimacy.
I made a space for sound so we could sing our resilience.
I broke consistent because I knew already the world was spinning.
Let me tell you, between the choice of wonder and knowns, you want to lead a life of never seeing too far forward in time.
I imagine anyway. It must be a kind of peace to not know always what is coming next.
Plague Journal:
6.23.20
if i would have known on the that last night before the city shut down that i would never kiss you again. i would have really kissed you. i would have stayed long enough to say good bye.
but like most of my life, i thought i had all the time in the world.
and i thought you loved me too.
and what has been most consistent in my life is how wrong i am about other people.
Resource:
Survivor Stories: Family reflects on how Hurricane Katrina brought them closer together
https://www.today.com/news/survivor-stories-family-reflects-how-hurricane-katrina-brought-them-closer-t137527
6.23.20
if i would have known on the that last night before the city shut down that i would never kiss you again. i would have really kissed you. i would have stayed long enough to say good bye.
but like most of my life, i thought i had all the time in the world.
and i thought you loved me too.
and what has been most consistent in my life is how wrong i am about other people.
Resource:
Survivor Stories: Family reflects on how Hurricane Katrina brought them closer together
https://www.today.com/news/survivor-stories-family-reflects-how-hurricane-katrina-brought-them-closer-t137527
