MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 25)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about interstellar tragedies, a wise-world-order where no one is held morally responsible for their deeds or thoughts, pedophilic priests, drug binges
sun-dulling chill of autumn smells long forgotten until the dream that activates some part of his brain to retrieve them again—the olfactory parallel to the phantom limb love born from paucity is too needy and love born from plenitude is just too—into, too in love with, itself that getting old opens us to mate qualities overlooked in the superficiality of youth is compatible with our just being desperate birth individuates, isolates (and so allows for togetherness); but death is but a shift in individuation—a new isolation the day is at hand, and rightfully so, where we will understand retributive punishment of rapists to be as barbarically ignorant as retributive punishment of dogs or babies for shitting on the rug small-town telephone operator before 911 newspaper does in fact keep you warm the boy’s run-ins with the pedophile priest described as “run-ins” even a slave develops domestic feelings for her cold quarters keeping ears on someone instead of eyes a hole deeper than any sound from a boulder shouldered into it the body’s resilience sang when he gave up, gave in to death—and it kept on living through his binges and benders of drugs, his not eating oblivious to judging eyes, black teens slap snot-nosed kids to keep them still on the train down enough about himself that the main hesitation to suicide— to pulling the trigger, jumping from his office, hooking up the hose to the exhaust pipe, was that he would probably fuck that up too hidden in one’s very overexposure a daily inventory of losses to your dignity countless tragedies in countless star systems artists raging against cliché merely by reacting to it: spoofing it—enlivening it posed portraits, simulacra that they are, still capture the person—and humanity eating, sleeping, secreting, working, and bracing for the next disaster dreading the disappearance of stage-fright, of tension lost in the performance—for what it mean for his care
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.