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Chelsea Chavez Dec 2015
My pride pours out on you and I am a desert. You can have all of it. You have.

The vanity of remembrance feints like an open wound.
It is time only, that has helped me to see my self.  It is not truth.
That is untamed and unplottable.

Even I do not belong where I have been, but that is irrelevant. Hush, now.

The feelings pour out, and unmutual.
The effort is worthless. Remark.
Somewhere azaleas trash the ground in pallour.

The more space escapes us, the more deformed I become.
An unpleasant presence in the black of your absence.
If I have ever loved nothing, I have loved.

I am looking for a language that only I know.
How I ruminate on bones.

Richard Grossman said, “There is nothing more terrible than loss, which cannot be measured. Lost loss.”

How do I say, I miss your hands.
How do I say anything?

The slow movement of away may be the calmest and most difficult thing
I have ever endured.
Chelsea Chavez Nov 2015
There were things we could not find the words for. A mastery of leaning into. Though I cannot say I didn’t try, didn’t try to immobilize, though the dusk always called for it, in its one’s and two’s. It is always ******* of sunlight, always ******* of cornflower blue. At the moment, it is eating off the shores of Northern and Southerly. At the moment it is slick in regret, in paradigm of what was and wasn’t said. Tomorrow it will eat off the coast of tempestuous Eros. It will churn in spoil. The weather will be asking for injury by this rose hour that makes your face glow now, regrettably and earnestly. Wanton will be swimming in the shallows, coated in oil and gloating in the fat of Mercury. The seals will be loose jawed and whorish tonight and prime their grey bodies amongst the sand. It was true, you know, how we would embed it. In the coffee we would see our past lovers. Too much cream, this time. Too much silt, the other. The adjustment of bathroom soap collected a solicit slough of how permissible became habitual. Now yellow, now how obtuse you are, placing the teapot this way, not that. This time the ocean will become other and it will forget. It is migrating deeper now, to the other blue. Feasts are off course, elsewise the ocean flacks and mist creates you. You now, always blissfully aware. Always pardoning yourself as the sunset flocks off in orange claps towards dawn black horizon. She is not there. She has never been there. By morning you will be bones and it will have feasted on forgotten.
Chelsea Chavez Nov 2015
I do not have access to fact. The truth is I will remember you and not remember why. I wish she was here to remind me of what I’m missing. Details leave me as well as the persistent heat of year long summer endures, reinforcing the blatant query of forgone. The once known gently shrugs tired arms and I am loose paper.  I am impressed with a deep instinctual need for movement but the reality is I move less and less each day. My ego longs to move on but keeps returning to the bed I don’t belong in. It is covered in owl feathers and blue petals. Someone else occupies it now in another city. I am thirsty, but everything is bittersweet. It is always bittersweet. This tang always like copper in my mouth. A tired hand always spins the spoon. Images overlap of her wet face and sad arms. She is happy now. You can only believe this uncertainty. The truth is there is no truth. Only knowing. This always keeps us looking. Something inside keeps scratching, always twining the immutable self, eating its way out. You have a name for it, but you’ve forgotten. Her arms are forgotten, only now the things she touched. Like the morning. In me always morning, the lament for impermissible time leaks out between the floorboards in blush white light. Even now there is no explanation.
Chelsea Chavez Nov 2015
Last night I went to Africa. I spent a month there. I know this because I told you.This morning I am exhausted, turned over too many times in sleep and wakefulness as the day gloats over my body. Yesterday’s skyline made me dream of lavender forests. In the dreams I took stills of purple and blue bark, papery shadows. I wanted to capture the essence for morning.  In the morning I knew I would forget, but the image, or the fleeting, trails in me. I spent a lot of time by a river. Grey mud grows on me. In the mud there is a struggle. At times I would touch myself and find blood. I am not afraid of the scarlet here. The colour is rare and important, but tomorrow will be lost on me. I will be left with the flash of an impression in your arms. When I woke up I wanted to tell you something. A why was stuck in the mud burrowed within me.  A new cleft. When I open my mouth I create old wounds in silence. I will spend the next few days trying to cover them in dust. In the dream I walked many miles, and the stairs of a house burn in me. I felt the thoroughness in my legs. Before I woke I squatted in the schoolyard where I told you about it, inspecting the new firmness in my muscles. I realized that I didn’t long to impress you. There will be things we never know.  There are roads I walked and can’t remember now. The earth will not discuss it. Today the light affronts me. I am lost somewhere in Africa where you are not. Today I will not wake up. I will keep remembering the blood. The lavender forest spreads within me. A man will protest it with forgetfulness. I will push against the morning and slide into it. I will always slide into it.
Chelsea Chavez Nov 2015
There is an ocean under a lake under a sky under an earth.
-
I am digging under the carpet.
Carpet. Carpet feathers everywhere.
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The body of water moves, misses something.
Here. Always pulling. You know about gravity, and sadly never understand it.
-
Circle sky of stars embedded in basalt caverns.
The water is the ceiling. The universe spirals into the infinite mirror.
-
Under the carpet, mother’s old photographs of you.
Still of you and the men who touched you.
-
Flocks of bats discard each other in reverse.
The mirror moves, breathes her wings towards the ocean.
-
I have forgotten how many I have slept with, sit on the bathroom floor
drawing circles in the memory of what if.
-
Deep earth. Hand drawn circles in bone. Mother moves inside you.
-
I am crying and do not know which time it is. I light a cigarette in the mirror.
-
The water touches on something. There is a vacuum of time you exist in.
Milk bats nurse from the black hole at the center of the cave.
-
The bats have gone now too. Feathers. Feathers everywhere.
-
I am wet but not here. The sheets are wet. There is an impression of someone
next to me.
-
At some point I realize I can’t go home.
Chelsea Chavez Nov 2015
we will stay away from the usual colours. they make you sick now. I watch the blue peel from you as paint from the walls. they are small and you are small, and I have become small watching and leaving.  and pressing. last night I dreamt of pomegranates. the seeds were yellow. I uncapped the small heads routinely, the rest in black and white. yellow dischords a monotonous uncanny vellum. it soaks the paper that spreads between us, accents the spacelessness we have grown accustomed to. I thought about writing a letter. the colours had began bunching around the corners, and somehow I am convinced that I have done wrong. in the absence of words, a gesture of apology. you know, there is a hole in the sun, the size of many earths. maybe this is why my phone loses time. mars keeps losing its atmosphere, a desert framed by solar winds. I think, something was forgotten. tomorrow I may talk about something real. it will make you sick. I will never write the letter. in the morning you will forget. you will replace the subject with line after line. the colours will bleed out. I will be reminded there is nothing left.
Chelsea Chavez Oct 2015
A machine altering itself is a very complex concept.
Self-repairing implies some idea of a conscience.

You are told you are the result of a primate leaving a tree.

A unit without the second protocol could travel the road of evolution.

The only limitation a machine has is the second protocol.
The second protocol prevents the unit from altering itself.

We do not know what lies beyond the second protocol-the protocol exists because
if it were eliminated, who knows how far it could go.

The human thought structure:  you are covered in dust, stand in the white rim
of desert. The sky peels, cloudless.

You ask, was coming down from the tree worth it to get where we are?

The unit has been manipulated.
Is there a trace of origin?

The human thought structure entangles wires.
Iron hierarchy of meaning-infrastructure compounds to collapse.

You are looking for the beginning.

You forget if you have seen an ocean before, stand in the white.
The dust pit opens itself, cracked sea wound articulating fingers of irony.

You forget, you must live first in order to die.

The ocean swells. The machine needs something from you.
You keep thinking of returning to the city. The white is everywhere.

You are still looking for the beginning.

The unit does not need to speak, but it breathes. It has been enhanced.
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