“A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed—and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!”
― Arthur Rimbaud
"Sometimes I grow
so tired of speaking
my emotions to you.
I open my mouth
and dust spills out
instead of feelings."
writers write about their experiences whether they’ve experienced them or not.
losing someone close to you, at times, is like nursing a phantom limb—you go to move it because you think it’s there, you know it’s there, you feel it there so it must be there.
but then it’s not.
but then time, time makes it better, i think. its sands close the wound, it is no longer mortal. and your open eyes are no longer reminders her’s are closed.
you no longer well over when you think of loss, your mind no longer flips rounds like her truck, hangs hinged like her neck. nights now bring silence instead of broken vocal strings.
darkness was your bed linen, your atmosphere, your carcassed meat settling in malnutrition. and sun, even in noonshine, rays were empty, set only as shadows to darkness.
and every night that draped into day, your prayers were dull knives that failed to pierce Heaven and rear you peaceful, so you let water connect eye and ear as you stared at the glow stickers on your ceiling.
four a.m. was an intruder that never found you sleeping, so you made nice, became friends. but four a.m. is one of those friends who’s always taking; your sleep, you alertness. In exchange gives you apathy.
then, one day, you woke, midday sun voyeuristically demanding you greet it; demanding crust swept from your eyes. it’d been watching you for weeks, but you never saw it, simply rolled over into your pillowcase.
that day, you woke, you looked at the dust particles twerk and twist in light and stood, after so long laying in blackness, stood in warmth and let it grab you, realized you were beating.
you looked and saw your veins plumping, and you thought to yourself— she is there, wherever ashes were scattered. i am here. i live. let the dead bury the dead.
knife-thick waves course black skin
letting, floods of scarlet paint
sandy flesh and hair
an orange blossom headrest
and a blanket of melon vines