In progress

When the writing is the panic of drowning. Really.

When you decide

because it is the only decision left, to breathe

then and the water-not-air ache realization

that before unconsciousness is

suffering. it will first have its turn.

——-

these tears, now patch-dry salt streams

are that whiling smoke

murmuring in wind tones of smouldering fires in buried places

like

the congenital communion between heart meat and flesh-on-bone

the thing about meat from the heart is that it can withstand

it can be beaten.

it. will. still pulse raw, gut-red

but mine could not do it alone, it required mercy.

a living thing, it parched for compassion so the fire that caught, that night in the kitchen on fleshloam

caught

with a conviction and sense of destiny imperturbable.

MEANT.

the urgency with which it caught became an voluble testimony to heartmeat beatings 17 years long

that urgency became my forehead slamming into the dashboard again and again before my mother could recline my car seat, hold me, and whisper blessings and prayers to the Lord

she hoped a child like this would never be her lot

but a fire that catches and catches will burn

the wheat.

the leaves.

but, peculiarly enough, not the skin

not the thick of the earth

 

  April 17, 2014 at 12:45am

Congressional billz & TRINA

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  April 15, 2014 at 03:53pm
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(via dhatu)

best compliment to high-focus work
#grind

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  April 07, 2014 at 10:14am
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  April 01, 2014 at 06:43pm
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