How can i write a life?
How can a life be lived, truly. sweet nuances touched and tasted, my belly rubbed firmly gainst smooth stone at the heat of days peak. as lizard.
I want this Greek mourning to be the morning it is and not that which it should be. I want to dance inside its bowels. Its juice spilling as soft nectar, impossible sticky sweetness forced gagging down my throat. I weep for the cricket voice singing sunrise psalms that i can only hear and cannot ever truly be.
How can this life be written?
The widower in her cool domain scrapes metal against aggregate mixing water with the pain and pleasure of her passing. Neatens and quietens. As it should be. Her worn hands write in a text of returning forks and knives to ancient drawer chambers. And i truly believe she can live, does write her life. Inside of the moment of being. A unity of fact and intention.
I mourn for your completeness. Outside here. Always outside. Flesh barrier bans my inclusion in any real sense and words tumble as pointless. Spilt intentions on stone floor swept methodically by a nations women in being-ness. My vulgar, desperate vowels insult you. Delirious with desire.