MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 13)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about self-love, outlawed sights, instigating violence, moldy toilets, football fanaticism, miracles, doomsday preachers, pooping on the roadside, nurse obligations
nurse handjobs should be normalized human drummers drift grooming consent the biggest cope is living life as if it were rehearsal sorrow into the song of spring buds grudges dissipated by undistracted sight of the sunset endless becoming, there can be no final catastrophe teeth-cracking tics illegal to have selfie photos in one’s possession of one's own pussy at the primetime of fifteen, perhaps one day—when mental images can be hacked into—it will be illegal just to look at your pussy then disaster remembered as our best time, the bullshit— all of it—sloughed off like excess migrant luggage as the belt around our unity squeezed terribly tight having so secluded himself away, the artist’s life was gone before it was done—but that was his sacrifice to humanity, because in seclusion he was not just twiddling his thumbs the problems come largely from you: even when frantic to go, you cannot shit roadside in a squat smiling at a stranger walking by autocratic self talk of “Calm down”—rather than more somatic self talk of “Notice your breathing”—insinuated she was freaking out, which ramped up the freaking out from a standpoint of higher grace, humans— like amoebas for us—go about in poses statuesque enough for the theater stage automatic standing at attention—a few times, yes, even responding “Yeah?”—when your ex-wife calls out “Honey” to another at the blended table the lip-biting eroticism in watching people get their “deserved” punishments is threatened by the glaring reality that humans are the buckstopping source, the prime movers, of nothing having to do with them—no action, no thought hoarding merely in the closet, meaning he would pose at most a moderate junk-removal burden on loved ones in the wake of death, suggested he was a closet hoarder meditation only becomes a thing to try to do in civilization teens needing zones too strange, too cool, for parents to colonize preachers of imminent doomsday planting apple seeds in the yard comedy without tragedy is delusion; tragedy without comedy is the same walking away from great relationships in the chase of the high of the hunt rather be among murderers itching to shank than cut off indefinitely in solitary the meteor still nears even though your wife up and left you in their football fanaticism (bleacher stomping, shrieking) he could not but sense—hankering for release—a burn-that-witch store of energy since there will always be those greater, and since no greats avoid obliteration, it is silly to think “Why even bother trying, if I won’t be great ”: aim less for incredible, more for credible for all of us to have exited the front door of the hospital, fire alarm blaring, in the exact order we did—that was a mind-boggling improbability, and yet it required as much supernatural explanation as Timmy’s cancer remission the pleasure in seeing the pushover finally wig out—and the hope that his victims had time to regret what they had done not so much brittleness, what did him in was having forgotten how to fall what does it mean when you refuse now to clean the toilet’s urine ring of mold? invested as he is in being a bearer of bad news entices him to distort statistics that give us reason to put our heads up, even though those statistics allow for new bad news a voice, a way of speech, so mesmeric that you struggle not to mimic it back while in conversation with its owner selecting an epitaph from a cemetery book— a sad thing, but not too terribly sad if it includes “I’m just resting my eyes” or “I told you I was sick” we identify with going to the moon, saying “We went to the moon”— and yet we do not say “We sex traffic kids” can a hermit’s lack of community be mostly compensated for by communion with things (trees and other “natural” things)— by communion, ultimately, with the very isness of all that is?
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 2017 portion of that five-part work.
