Circles to Sea
We walk in the cold night air. Naked.
Luminous dark , ass exposed. Public.
And I am not here, for her to awaken. I whisper.
I slip from the bed. Undetected.
I have turned
into dust. Seize the day that leaps from
the erotic night.
Hera's gift of sweet sleep.
And in Christmas spirit your "he's at home"
carefully hidden from the happy children.
Light plays stained glass penrose tiles upon your skin
from prayer flags that fly in your window.
And I left you
when the dawn was still dark
What of the stars.
What of songs.
What of the faces of women.
All I ever heard
was your ever expanding circle
like Rilke woke up alone with you
The circles that never seem to live up
to the ones inside your head.
Keep your eye on true north
even if I have to move your head for you.
It will guide you home, in fair wind
whether following sea
or storm
I remember your face
I remember you
And Joseph's face was black
And Paul walked beneath a gray sky.
And Silas turned on the radio
And Lather is thirty years old today
You were
You are
an early memory
a vaporwave rerun
of Donnie Darko Shadow
These chains forged
one by one
from my life.
They marked like stars in the southern hemisphere.
They have lit her eyes full of light.
link by link
yard by yard
Is its pattern strange to you?
We turn to each other
as we drive the one road
that encircles Iceland.
And watch it bend.
when it comes to a place of a Faerie.
and human voices wake us
from autoreverie
I heard there was a place
that was like a hot tub.
And you can swim in the sea.
I will remember you. Then.
Watching them rush by
like memories
that come to sea
to stay
Comments
Trying to reconcile with me by wearing different Ben Cooper costumes and tapping out Morse Code hints at me on the internet was not the right choice.
For four years, The Holy Borg’s had an undisclosed lobbyist $ucking dicks for your trashy hedonistic party rental permit on stolen federal land in front of the rightful owners. There is Zero entitlement for up to 80,000 fuckfaces to bury more plastic from WalMart in sacred ground every year. And if attendees love & respect Art so much, how come artists keep having to complain about all the male 24 Hour Party People who piss their free margaritas all over the artwork? Nice. I’m sure some Burners have good intentions, but any virtue in this Burn-It-All-Down-Shindig is drowned out by the tens of thousands of assholes doing it because “fuck you, that’s why”. “Oh but Those weren’t real Burners”- you know that doesn’t mean it didn’t fucking happen; in fact, it only shows your fake acetic culture ran off the rails long ago.
Why does Burning Man infuriate me? Many reasons, but I consider it a massively wasteful and ego-fluffing Fakery Festival populated chiefly with white pathological narcissists & people running out of Experiences they haven’t checked off the list, while hypocritically & loftily (falsely) claiming environmental responsibility & depth of feeling. (While staggering around on various hallucinogens & alcohol inside any number of fetid Fuck Tents on federal land, remember. Lofty.) “I go for the art & freedom”- Art is closer than that Nevada desert, and it serves as a respectable cover for a Burner’s freedom to do- what, again? Party- that’s it. You can do that with a lot less damage at regional Burns. They should divide the pile of money the Borg is sitting on between trusts for 1) the PLPT Tribe & 2) artists/builders, but that’s one hell of an empty dream considering this assemblage of assholes. If you’re still balls deep in Burning Man’s bag of flaming dogshit, fucking reconsider.
“Figure it out, ya little mathematician.” -Kids in the Hall
“Merry Christmas. Ho, Ho, Hooooo.” -A Christmas Story