my heart is in so many pieces, i think it might explode, take form as dozens of things – desert rocks and desert dogs, rivers on several continents & their water falls, made by shifting earth crust or dams, colors of sky as found between far horizon and distant buildings.
fingers press through my heart as they would through dough or mud or sand or clay, as they would dilly dally through the smearing of oil pastels or wet paint, as they would touch a face for the first time, or a breast, or a thigh: feeling slowly: the changing pulse, the rising goose bumps.
i am in the street walking and the pain shifts from the impossible chaos of seeming to be in the wrong place, altogether the wrong place, the place you are certain you are not meant at all to be, to the impossible chaos of the beautiful journey of perception – delirious, delirious beauty that is at first like a too-hot-bath, but that adjusts to you as you adjust to it, until you, being within it, loosen your body, almost without a thought, and feel and think without distinguishing the two.
i am in a panic, i am huddled in stories and memories and imagined conversations unrealized. this is the madness of being that i clutch and release, unsure whether it keeps me alive or suffocates me to feel in this way – such sharp angles, such pulling in the tightest corners – how i make a ballet dancer of this thing that pumps blood – i have dressed her in pink tights, black leotard, put a barre under her hand that she sometimes does not seem to perceive, and told her: stretch… stre-e-etch. stre-e-e-e-etch…