8
Jul
Writing and Waiting
Recently, I’ve been writing on my collection of short stories, so I’ve not been posting as much on this site. My apologies. However, that is not the only reason. I’ve often wondered what makes one a writer, and the writing life that is involved. Such as, consistency, place, and inspiration. I know that waiting for inspiration is not the way to write, that consistent pursuit each day toward a goal is how a writer meets creativity . . . but, oh how I wait (too often) for the inspiration, or clarification of my ideas instead of just writing them down. So, my apologies. Kindly, Lane8
Jul
Aleph
I am between the leaving-taking . . . I am in-between journey . . . between the 5th sacrament . . . between mothers and the pretty daughters before the wedding music starts but before the brief darkness, when the dress falls from the lovely flesh and the soft, silver-white bone of ghosts of youth and the after ghost. Aleph, between your thighs; the taking of sacrament between you and me before the closing quiet, but before the closing of the ears to this world to listen for the murmur, your cellular history, before mercurial element, before wood, water, Word . . . birth, pain, you, me . . . And there is a womb, a cage with a long divide between that place and this . . .
28
May
These Constant Remembrances of Remaining Matter
draftfor Mae These soft hearts are our apology for the Earth. To lie down in the darkness of dense dirt, ply our fingers through the layers, leading deep in our practice with the crumbling clay of our sleep, digging our way through the clay of the beautiful body until we break fingernails in our lovemaking with Her. With the silly pose of stillness, our holy-held hands feel each other out and bond in the beginning decay, our supple, strange, suitable vegetable selves fall apart, underneath the barreled bodies of fallen trees in a shady place, in the gloaming before the dark. We all perish and leave these decorated and useless rooms of earthly trappings, the things we attain from birth like you, as a young girl with a new and pretty doll, like you, giving the body of your own doll for the feeding. In the end, we are the spectacular agents of our awakening with these eyeless cups and hollow mouths we bear. To the flowers and trees we give the still breeze-breath and return love to love, and life unto that spiral life. For, our only offer is the weak sacrament of flesh and blood so the Earwig may eat entirely and become an immanent entity.
18
May
You are Divinity for the Techniques of this Life
for H.-You want me to laugh? I will laugh for insane's sake, the insanity of it all, cry out for it all, I will. Yes, if it's your will, I will pound down the pompous, the fat saints and holy boys running Read more
