Stillness Still

What shall I do when my skin pickles and my mind dries splintered?

I won’t stare into dirty window panes.

What shall I do when my eyeballs glitch shudder open-shut, right to left?

I won’t run, slaughter, spin out, or crash in stupor-ful grim.

Where shall I go when cars slam openings cabin space so tight it pierces skin?

To nowhere regret drives home.

How shall I survive the sandwiched time of somatic stares and twitching sleep–

unparalleled movement unceasingly on?

By leaving love notes in your lunch box and writing letters home.

Why do we contrive without power un-surrendering ourselves to the perpetual?

We won’t let the wheel go, let the world spin a’wheel.

Which is in? Which is out? 

What matters?

When will the uncleaved door bend, ope-crack and whistle in the sizzling windy train of space, 

belly breathe hoary air eons long, trellised and clinging to cilial body, shivering sensoranticipatorily?

When still–

Yet still–

Stillness is.

 

Pixabay: waterstillnesswoodnets

The Poetry of Being

  
The components of being build essences of the all told, acted, sung and noted.

They shake out doings done and yet to come like San Andreas’ fault, not a fault. 

Did we quake? My shoulders shuddered like a surge, a heart murmur or eruption.

No, the inner mechanics of rebellion taking a stand on all things ingest just arose.

When the ear throbbing starts, I know I’m lost to it, going into floated notice din.

My heartbeat declares so loudly inside my ears in its under water muffle-areum.

I doubt creation’s pen then, my mouth moving silently, my hands ripping at keys.

Keyboard fingers fly like the cocaine toad hopping brain’s clicking away at strings.

There’s this word association that bleeds writing, a lapse, slide gurgle into them:

Strung words, the meaning of which is not revealed until they mix and sit together.

They settle in a rhythm and slur, brushed water tinted smears blotting tilted space.

Poetry and being entwine thus: letter, scene, wish, guess all overlaid in blindness. 

Squeezed juice, the nothing of matter becomes me-you, and we polish air’s shine.

Post-post graduate school poem about the nothingness of everything

 
credit:  http://www.tech-gaming.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/12-6-My-Pretentious.jpg

ironic  

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feminism

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construction

object 

oppression 

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