MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 65)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about doe yearlings, vibrators, prison guards, inmates, flowers unfurling, teenager masturbation, the stare of the void, doggie euthanasia, beer after work, incest
heart beating ancient yearnings for yearlings in estrus—rhythms now deemed taboo a baton raked across bolted iron reels him back from memory white creases of bloodlessness in the back of the red neck market sellers fake the accents matching their wares needle lodged in one groove until an ayahuasca hand knocked it into another the daydreams of the prison guard: lures in water, crosshairs on game a mere board between two step ladders convicts dreaming aloud intimacies unfurl like morning petals, until vulnerable hollows lie splayed the half-speak between family inside the home captive eyes track him pacing his own carbon-copy days against the jangling keys of bleak routine, her mind— decades on—wanders that sylvan glade (Disney soft) where her own father (oozing) could not help himself “Be sexually liberated, but still be a decent”—a schizoid dilemma faced by contemporary women? what lies behind perpetual liveliness and what lies behind the inability to stand being around it the child says he hates dill pickles, but after play outside followed by a bath perhaps too hot, he says to his father, out of the blue, “I’m ready to try pickles again” barely enough to pay for groceries, and we are hit with how we need to change our mattress every eight years? captive eyes track him pacing his own carbon-copy days deceiving with regard to his heredity hope—slim as last season’s photos daring open-air communion beyond the comfort of separate shelters that bothersome angle, insisted upon, to showcase the genital penetration full-out sprint—it is almost painful merely to walk on crank devoted to, loving, a city for its amenities you cannot afford manifest destiny calls him to woods beyond credit-card debt after-work beer to avoid, not to fertilize, the shrinking frontier what lies behind both perpetual liveliness and the inability to stand being around it? each day used to brim with risky discovery—now, only that nine-to-five cubicle: rug walls never to be known by friends dead from childhood fun (cliff falls, overdoses) jail drama—cliques, beefs— mainly to break the monotony, manufacture novelty nerves have us give tongue to idioms—however out of character for us, however crackpot killing the dog fails to cure the bite, but it takes away the pain—at least a little bit caged days spark the mind as blindness does the ear belly grazing along the void in extreme flights to avoid its black stare parched beside fountains of false hydration, pilgrims—by traveling within—travel beyond miraged oases receding into hollow horizons too fat to hang in the fistfight for long, the mom calls the cops with fake sobs as she smirks and thrusts a middle finger at her teen son it is easy to say that, in times primeval, a transcendent realm was posited merely due to misinterpretation of natural events (lightning of God)—but often interpretations reflects needs with all the vibrators and other stimulatory doohickeys nowadays, even doe yearlings first exploring themselves play the acoustic perhaps only ever a handful of times
This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2016 portion of that five-part work.
