meekkeen
I love contradiction. / I love knowing only that I know nothing. / I love the futility of language, / and the fact that it's all we've got, / and so we- / and so we / we endlessly struggle to create / meaning. / what. / what? / FUCK! / fucking meaning. fuc / fuck / hm
You seem bubbly today- it’s just a chemical imbalance- soon my dopamine levels will stoop below the norm and I’ll be crawling back upwards with tiny fingers gripping the brain that I have probably taken advantage of. You seem bubbly today- it’s just a chemical imbalance. Went out last night and let my mind balloon outward, the lip-smacking tang of pilsner washing out the smoke on my molars that I silently savor.
It’s just a chemical imbalance when I bounce on my toes and
Feel my heart part the sea of space before me-
Suddenly people are presents that I am eager to open
And I want to look around the corner
But it’s just a chemical imbalance
Could I do the same thing tomorrow, or the next day
When everything has leveled out
And I feel the grassy plain surging before me,
Vast,
Void,
Vacuum pulling me inside my mind-
A claustrophobic cavern-
The space where I reconsider
The way I move my lips
And direct my eyes.
I will murmur to the end of the tunnel.
Until I can escape,
See the green unfurling before me-
Billowing,
Beckoning,
Breath bringing me back to myself-
And run
Run until I forget why I ever wanted to look back,
Until I don’t know how I could have ever fallen down
There…
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
Within some experiences I am “there,” within others, I am “not there.” In the latter sort, it is either anxiety-laden hyper-awareness or sardonic dissociation from minutia-made-material. In the former, it is effortlessness, freedom, gliding bones through sea, the waves pushing me down its throat and breathing me back out, moistened and changed. In both forms of existence I find myself; this is not something to reconcile, but to accept. I have realized myself as one contradiction—a noose round the neck of a flower, a gardener of thistle and thorn. The blue sky stretches across the horizon, and my mind removes itself to a distant branch. I find myself both here and not here. This space between body and mind is the closest I have to freedom. And so I add a layer to myself, or uncover one. And this, always, is where I find purity, where I comprehend the contradiction, where I taste the essence of that which I cannot otherwise know.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 1:49 PM UTC
I wait for the winter like a wind-up bird, chattering its chipped porcelain wing—the music box croaks on for my finger still trembling, an intermittent sweet note gliding away like a fugitive tear. I crane my neck in vain against the days growing shorter, the nights deceptively embryonic—I swim in them. Eventually the water and I become one languid body, a vinaigrette left to sweat, a sad salad. We do alright, we do with the flies. One wing tip-dipped inward, this one never thought he’d come too close, that one never thought, head fully submerged in a bowl of subtle acid soup.
And then the ladle-eclipse, its gorge swooping beneath me, engulfing me in its inverted belly, my limbs gangly-dangling like lifeless antennae. Soon I am spooned onto a saucer and served to the Universe’s most pretentious dinner guests. Old Man Winter is the first to **** his pongs about my tender torso, and I am reminded of last season’s stinging and stabbing, though I manage to escape unscathed, however canned and stored in the crowded freezer. There I forget the Sun. I forget how to liberate my emotion, how energy can become a circuit of temperament. I am released when the Old Man retreats. I remember the post-circuit-breaking fear of being thought crazy, of the accuracy of those perceptions. I re-experience the cackling pleasure of moving against the grain. I learn how to harness and channel high frequency vibrations.
Flattened and sealed in the sardine can I healed. I grew in the dead of winter, I grew even when the goblin would meet my gaze in the mirror. I hear the ticking of the bird but now only in my left ear. I peer into the future and watch the bird fly away.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
Effortlessness is what empties a room- a mind also being a room- and extends a willowy collection of bones that you hope you can touch in your attempt to communicate the context of the rooms, so that the enigmatic hand might grasp at least a flicker of recognition that the moment has passed, and now She must be going, receding ever sublimely into the airiness of a nascent week’s end- how contradictory- and so am I, begging for peace and quiet and crawling instead into the raucous night, like a blind centipede that is expected to scare away the house, making the true Resident Rodents their rightful place at the throne- the bejeweled Rat Regent rules the underworld, but She has ignored the portal and it has vanished- perhaps never there in the first place- perhaps She and the Rat King both made of smoke. A vestige of a vapor. A room within a room- windowless, wall-less, and wafting in and out of seeming existence like a flame- could it have been the same flame as was before? Could ever a flame be reborn, revived, said to have previously existed? Can one say this flame could not have already been? And is this room, this space, new or old? Perhaps recycled? Is it a fluctuation, regeneration, or is it a continuation- like infinite space? And when considering infinity, what to make of repetition? Pattern, even? What is to be said about consistencies? What can the ants see that we cannot? What is this perspective that we are given? And by whom? And our language- where does it bring us? To the next essentially empty room? Or do you feel the life pulsing right under your very nose, in the hidden eye of the void- do you sense the deaf-dumb omniscience of consciousness? And is it growing or dying? Is an ice-age approaching, or truly, is this a momentary lapse of reason- a period of time where reason (matter and the mind) take shape in the disembodied womb of consciousness? And how can one ever measure a moment?
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
The woman in the waiting room
In disembodied space,
She dug a hole,
Pale,
And fell into it.
She digs holes and dances ‘round them.
She dug a hole and danced around it.
(She…
…She…
She uses gendered language)
In the next room they try to fill holes by digging them.
She tells them this is backwards.
You will just make a larger hole.
In the farthest room someone sits across from you, telling you how to feel.
But all things become lost in the hole
All things but the pale
Underside of a leaf floating atop an unnatural calm
Wind
Or water
And the pale face
Standing atop the bridge
Drinking in the cold,
dark,
space
reserved for the unborn.
She cannot enter it;
The hole will not go deep enough
This time.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
**The water was quiet and unruffled:
Though intemperate winds blew on it
Ne’er once did it ever really stir
And we got so used to its pervasive presence
In line with global trends everywhere
We took notice only when loud waters bubbled
Like wayward children we scoffed
When delectable words of wisdom
Wafted like therapeutic mist out of Wisdom Well
But now that the well is empty and dry
Our deprivation begins in earnest
And soon, very soon, nostalgia will whip us
One and all till we learn the bitter lesson:
That second chances belong to storybooks only;
Now that this veritable repository of true wisdom
Is in other dimensions our dilemma cries out
Who amongst us shall quench our thirst
Now that the water in the well has dried**
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
I regret
That I have yet
To barrel down a bannister
Take charge of the floorboard
And command a room,
Silent and full or
Symphonic and fractured
My perceptions
The hungry trees
Of a hungry forest
I do not regret
Having entered,
So I cannot regret
Not having done so.
Some places I imagine
Feel like
Orpheus Looking Back
Feel like
The preference
Of Pleasant Death.
You ask me why
I will not go,
I say
Because,
I Will Not.
You ask me why
I am afraid,
I say
I am a flame
Entombed
Who still feels the wind.
You ask me
What is it most
You fear?
I answer,
The flowers
In my head
Not sick,
But dead.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
I am waiting for the moment where I pivot and all that I can envision now is a blacktop and white dotted lines, maybe lanes of rolling white whipped green churning pinwheels going long down the road with a stalk of cud in my mouth can I ever go and unthink like the caramel burnt stained car chair that I rest in as a finger comprised of ash that will collapse in any second and Im telling you its beautiful to let go and see the small blue insects mixed up in a whirlwind of gray flecking flickers that you may capture with a white plastic bag it reads “shoprite” you remember times at the a&p; that was ay-em-pee to toddlers who were smarter to not distinguish between what seems and what is according to the strangers who walk the street, seem foreboding, and yet retreat indoors to steak dinners and why weren’t the tater’s in the oven at half passed six? Maryellen. I told you. I told you patriarchal. I sing from my molehill. My mother always fixed me a cherry pie told me I had the nose of a rodent and so I found my fathers gun, JOhny, white America, puh, would you think I’m on drugs because twenty-one and throw up when looking like chalk smeared on top of cheeks, these bones are feeling a bit decayed wont you examine what you’ve done to…who are you? And nowhere it goes. Nowhere it goes. I sit here im ****** you think it’s a joke but this blurb is worth
Less
Bag of blue sanddollars
Dipped in wax
With a wick
And a pick
A guitar string
And a tick-
Tock
Tick
Tock
Tick
Give it a lick
Peanut butter off a stick
I dunno whats to do or did
But theres a whole lot of mess out there
And we all are using it to smear messages in the listless purple filaments that cloud the sky
I’ve heard admonishments and thin mints in girl scout boxes ive eaten around glass patio tables with blue waters squarely pooled im sure your hair gel is swelling the heart of some hungry shewolf who will nibble or bite or swallow you, I do not know which one is which. But ive heard laments about nations and ignorance and I’m not sure who is more to blame or what could be a solution but to speak largely and loudly id need a microphone and a lot of ears or no a telescope and a broadcaster or better yet digital tools and the internet. Communication is the sopping soggy wet piece of bread that floats in my milk bowl and by the time my orange kitty paws move at it, the loose and expanded bits disintegrate and sink. A sink has a drain that gets clogged and we all must stare at it until it is cleaned and if I’m not the one cleaning my drain then who is the one cleaning my waste?
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
Where is the darkness in eyes in alleyways in downtown in weather
I feel my cheeks coated in fall air
And wonder
Where is the brightness in eyes in leaves in spontaneity around the corner
Could be a void or a spiral stair or a man you’re sure you’ve met somewhere
And maybe he has not a care
But the cup of coffee in his hand
And so you make a toast
To good mornings
And change
Found under the carpet where our newborn lies
With joie de vivre and a gurgle
That makes you want to kiss the world
But you can’t
Which is why you have the man
And the newborn
In your living room
With change under the carpet
One day your world will crumble
And again
Again
Until you contemplate the multiverse
Or perhaps it will expand
Or inflate
Or burst
Until you contemplate the infinite
Raise discontent within your cycle
Raise discontent within your cycle
Where are the fire-brimmed eyes
The gulf that scorches
Unquenchable
I will either live
Or drown in you
Where are my companions
In sin in question in masks and equations
My brothers the trees
How you’ve always reminded me
Of molasses
And honey
And water
Do you see?
How love and unrest and the illusion of depth
All lay down and die at your doorstep?
And you’re stuck moving backward trying to
Remember when you all first met-
And you unconvince yourself-
And the next time love greets you, you are
Surprised and gentle,
And then it all comes back to you:
Philosophy class, ***** solace at the ocean-
You panic-
And your lover is now shapeshifting so close beside
You that you can feel his breath
Derive your cycle
Derive your cycle
The Balance is surging beneath the surface.
To Stillness Life Travels.
And love, and unrest, and the illusion of depth
All lift the chests of rodents in garbage bins
Who then crawl out from under lids
This is all done in secret
At midnight
With the yellow toothed man under the yellowy moon
As witness
Only he knows
How life persists
And why
And not for you or I
But for each all the same
Indistinct
I will not shrink
Or wait
Or vie
But, beckoning from the mount
I will challenge the cycle
Let it believe it has killed me
And rise
And, beckoning once more,
Instantaneously, it will face me.
But stone I will be.
And before me the cycle collapsing
And behind me the vortex opening
Bestowing the gift of surrender.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
Thank you
For the flashbacks
The recurring theme
The cursed motif
I hailed into the closet
From behind the sheets
I could not comprehend
The depression
Though I knew its extents
The contents
Of its origin
I could not mend
You lengthened the bend
Thank you
For setting fire to my heart
The ultimate pyre
I’ve been reborn
And forever shall your
Essence lift to the tops of trees
And, looking for breeze,
Sink instead to the dirt
And sweating leaves
Of parchment you shall never read
The scripture that strengthens
My soul-
The harmonies that have turned me
Inside out
And allowed me to see
My heart deformed
Reformed
You will rest in rot
Yellow
And
Decay
Thank you for
Dangling the wrench
Challenging me to endure
The extraction of teeth
I am removing
I am re
Moving
My love
And loyalty
And sensuousness
From the snares
Placed in vain
My veins run clean
I am recreating
A scene
A feature
A fissure
Between life
And death
I am
Fire
Rain
The original
Spring
I am swelling forth
And catching flies
I am making prints
On earth and sky
I am giving birth
To myself
I am here
Hear me,
Thank you
For throwing me down
The stairwell
And creating the echo
That woke me
And burned me
And washed me
Clean.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 2:42 AM UTC