MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 63)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about Nietzsche, bestiality, torture, rehab, cocaine, immolation, warships, record skips, rainy fishing days, determinism, growing out of childhood, rejection
fingertips now split black olives high heels attract: injured, they cannot escape clammy undies stolen from the hamper in a palpitating rush tempted by the death drive to drown any challenging voice marble headstones eaten by acid rain dead, having never understood why that insignificant hiccup was most memorable Siberia—perhaps tomorrow’s Las Vegas the one who loves the other more nebulous lilacs burgeon across cosmic silences the everyday remnants of him litter in disarray, indifferent to our piercing grief boys serious on a trestle, sidestepping with the cleavage rowing below we smudge star-set design, as in when we castrate the screaming stallion, and yet insist that the blowjob it clearly welcomes—a relief, a gagging, just as star-set as the smudge—amounts to knifing a gash in the canvas in being encountered by the relatively older self below it, the something else that one becomes has a chance to have some of its facets unlocked the acorn premonitions the oak that would have shaded generations were it not for the brick and mortar he was not overcome with pity, slumping onto the horse being whipped in Turin: he could not help but mainline its affects in the coop of anonymity he cluck-clucked secure until capricious selection forced naked exposure, provoking pack predation long nights of summer far north: cerulean sunglow on one horizon, stygian blackness on the opposite one-sided is the idea of life as but a breakdown process, and embracing this side alone bars embracing the new afforded by each age—even by death all that we will ever be is nested inside us already, just as all that will ever be is nested inside what is prior—the difference, though, is that what is prior needs no outside help to bring it out nostalgia for free-roaming Indians only now that their threat has been wiped out living on the road pepper-packet napkins make you sneeze give a bum a bath and a new suit for the torture of getting his hopes up amid the diamonds of hushed tundra now bustles a neon fantasia, refracted stories washed away, however intensely wrought will AI groan more like a human and a bear, or more like a tree and mushroom, or more like a mountain and a moon? new options open when you quit drinking, but they do so as well when you drink yourself to death blood-battles provoked with good conscience— tossing seed to savage birds the castoff on the frayed edges of humanity retastes a recessed familiarity (self-worth), if only for one day, in the suit for a funeral that family found him to attend so many have immolated themselves to the principle “truth at all costs”—not just late hours and sedentary living, but also unearthing perilous facts, deleting life-sustaining deceptions veins of quartz in relief from the chronic downpour auroral bands against expansive void that final jerk-kick of the belt-hung man sundried shrimp pestled into a powder the heroic warship tugged to a shipyard up river for museum deconstruction subtle feel of rejection each time the oscillating fan turns its wind away close-range arrow shots of the man strung to a stake relationships that fail to survive their reunions blood seeps through the postcards painted upon their stolen future as if our romanticization of them could absolve our guilt about what we did to them low living but high thinking rebellion is good for winning back attention to the once only child feeding psoriatic skin flakes to the pet fish a dark drizzle—and it smells like a fishing day creek eel—blue kiddie pool—kid sticks poking mega gaps between the floorboards the unschooled art of those at the fringes the young flirt and, watching them, the old sigh they still haunt the land we rewrote, their paths right under our blacktop the horse's screams sounded his own cries from boyhood, when powerless beneath the erratic whip that shaped him skittish fat rails of all-purpose flour right there on the dining table to welcome him home from rehab from the safety of our stolen shores, we sentimentalize those we displaced (painting Hallmark myth with blood) robber barons endowing churches and libraries— manipulating reputation gelding the horse without its consent to stop its use for sex—sex to which it supposedly fails to consent, yes, despite erections unforced by any human hand
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.
