MUTINY,                                         
Blowing me to SMITHEREENS;

                 i ALWAYS feel BETRAYED

   and,                                          

            like true Violence,
                    it is Awkward & Messy.

An Amour (Armor) of Hate Festers,

                             but,

       unbeknownst to me, this is


             SELF DESTRUCTION.


If God is light in it’s purest form, 
their wrath then,                                

is the highest form of Rationality.

AND when they Destroy -                

                         who is there to save them?

Sometimes I’ll reflect on things that I’ve just said - right after I’ve said them - in the middle of another person’s reply; and I’ll think to myself: that didn’t make one bit of sense.

               

but they’ll take what i’ve said and try to make sense of it. Like if speech were a flexible, tangible, material; feeling & groping it up trying to make sense of the unidentifiable object in their hands, while simultaneously forming it into their own object and giving it their own signature.



“Let’s swap gum”


                                                [...], I wanna kiss.

Hot showers in out of town hotels.
Living w/ strangers like their family & never hearing from them again.

In another state - I don’t know where I am.
But it feels so much like home.
(Everywhere does except home).

An unknown town that looks familiar,
with unknown bodies.

                                                Thats my residence.

“Synthesizer Eyes”


Everything looks better when I can’t see.
[…]
Now, I am glowing with indifference.
I was once in the streets screaming Chaos Reigns, and now I struggle just to find time to lick the wounds that have built up.

My body was numb with power, but it now bites back; I can’t tell where pain comes from. I can’t even tell what feels good or if I’m going the right way.

Maybe chaos is still raining* down on me; I’m even deeper in the mix. I can’t tell if I want out.

I think I asked for this.

Garden.

[…]
In my grandma’s garden, I’m 6,
reminiscing on the scent of sweet tea as if I’ve been estranged from the south for years
-as if I didn’t just drink a big cup of it a hour ago.
I just discovered a new love - or fascination(?) with snails.
I learn they die by salt.
I’m quick to test that.

Melting their little hearts out, I felt more concern than anything.
As if I didn’t voluntarily cause it.
                     ~~
This was only the first of many experience’s with the paradoxical feeling.
                                                     ~~~~
I miss my grandmother’s garden.

Crimes against my Grandmother - #1


I can’t say objectively when it started & I don’t remember when it ended - if it has. Our best years are a blur to me; her best years, her prime. I got the butt end of them.


That’s not fair.                       ~~~


We were both youthful; adversely equals.

Now it’s only me. I speed up, she slows down, and I see no end to me but I know the same can’t be said for her. It is what it is, right?


In the times I can’t recall are where the fruits of her labor lie.


—& due to this, there isn’t a lick of explicit, tangible, appreciation in my mind, though, I’m aware it exists…it exists as a concept or an idea. I’ve gathered her fruits and have jumped ship.


    That’s my crime - conscious or not.
But.
If I could, I would play the blame game just once, and shift it to time; a generation divides us after all.


That’s what I’d like to tell myself.