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On the way to discovering everything I love, I discover everything I hate. 

Eternity is not endless time. Eternity is no time. Darkness cannot recognize light. Only light can recognize light. Pleasure turning into pain - no erotic meaning except for inevitable death. A cessation of flow between, beneath, and underneath, so as to be unable to rise. The liquid is full, gurgling, overflowing, rushing down the sides of the vessel in horror. I sway, red pulsing, burning the inside out.

I had an aunt who told me on Christmas Eve at a very early age that everything I ever said or did flew to the end of the world and waited there for me, at the end of all time. During this germination early in our lives we are imprinted with impressions that become weathervanes of taste and feeling, dependably charting directions for each of us in our lives. 

I’m in a certain hurry to feel everything. Everyday I ask myself if I’m a monster or if this is what it means to be human. Fear comes from what surpasses me, and I fear myself because I’m always ready to suffer. To protect me who persecutes me, I’ll float in emptiness and become air. I’ll look at myself in the mirror and see the other side of me and a luminous aura of silence will envelop me and the world will not touch me and I’ll feel with the most exquisite pleasure that I am whole and free of time and without before or after. 


The key lives inside my soul. It’s so bright and so disgustingly accessible and yet I’m not reaching for it. Perhaps the true path is with pain, and perhaps the most intense degree of pain floats in the same space as the most intense degree of happiness. So I am, in fact, profoundly happy. I’m so happy that I flee from happiness so that it won’t ever run away from me. 


It’s late. I’m already yearning for new ecstasies of joy or of pain. Is it dangerous to ask for more life? If I should or should not submit to the pressure of the stronger force is the question I casually struggle with.  


I’m sending my true love back to the bitch that bore you. She is the world-generating spirit who all creatures rise through: space, time, and causality – the shell of the cosmic egg. She is the lure that budged the self-brooding absolute to the act of creation. All information inside her is systematized around an enigma invisible even in its most private nucleus.  

I’m building myself a fortress out of glass and mirror and I’m going to hold lavish parties there until I’m utterly repulsed by it. Give me an abundance of glass so I can have my crisis of privacy. Then I want some ice cubes laid on steel buried in the snow then placed inside my mouth. Polyester sauteed with strawberry in a rosehip oil and turpentine blend massaged onto my tear ducts. Annealed glass shards dusted on top of fermented larvae and drop kicked into my navel. Spider silk soaked in epoxy resin and warped in between my toes. Sea crustaceans fluttering within my grueling vermilion heart. An unsent letter written on xerox paper folded countless times in the same three places, finally shredded and decomposed in the landfill, back into the earth, with all her other many secrets. 


The monster cannot reach me. I’m being raped by heaven and I’m staring down the eyes of death. What a loyal friend death is, standing like a savior by the side of unfortunate humankind. Death is an ecstasy like love, but definitely more intense, the reunion of the soul with its true self. 


Our heart is barbaric and our stomach domestic. I looked at both choices and each seemed right. Attaching any importance would annihilate all direct routes and also the paths of eternal question. Light, my radiant casket tears. Mystical forms without intelligence, like mathematics in each other’s arms. My brain is a sponge that soaks up suggestions, that’s all. 


I want something brilliant and inspired and mature, but I also want something lazy and superficial and dilapidated. The fervent epiphany of spiritual truth and the housewife’s neighborly chitchat. A formless, plotless conversation and the blueprint of the universe. A sweetly cliché amber perfume and a soft inner voice that whispers, “this way, this way.” Anything and everything that pops into my mind can distract from the reality that is, too, a fiction.


Getting the body robbed. Watch the limbs cascade into bloody waterfalls. Emerald, shiny, volatile. I’m sprinting into the sea so I can live inside an oyster before you ruin me for everyone else. Sparkly, thumping, a dash of vomit. I’m filling your spirit with wet cement. Shrinking, twitching, now the standing ovation. I’m lunging out of my body and it feels precise as a factory. A beauty that redacts all other data. I know the cost of keeping silent and I know the cost of speaking out. Encore. 


I am not always where my body is. I distance myself from myself. I live inside a dangerous passageway. The irrational world of pure emotions. I keep falling in love with cannibals. The pain is like an abyss that opens and shuts and the bubbles that rise from its eruptive waters below burst at the surface, letting their pus flow into glittering streams of beige. In this operation, the contents of each bubble reveal the true nature of the situation, making its tension and actualization dissipate. At this very moment, I am free. 


It has been revealed to me that crisis is the gateway to freedom. I die so I can breathe life. God’s thing is that he will just need you into the wilderness, gesture toward the trees, and then regress. I love mystics because they, unlike me, never stop searching for portals. They never give up on the beyond, they always keep one foot in the green world, they refuse to be a soul in a body, and instead move through the world as a body in a soul. 


Our merciless and tragic history, toss it into the air, watch it combust, scatter into thousands of sparkling fragments. I’m handing you a world on fire. I’ve given up on figuring out how to figure things out. I think of things so beautiful that I can’t even understand them. Even though I try to write about my art, there’s no point. Art is only a meaning, a stray meaning. What I make are the words I forget.


I’ve kept my death a secret in order to make my life possible. I’ve avoided falling to my knees in front of the first person who says, out of love, you’re afraid. I am defending myself and I’m not exactly sure against what. 

True happiness is when you command no one and you are not commanded. I crave a world outside the theater – this time, a real one, in which each of us directly participates as subject, not object. Until then, it’s within myself where I must create someone who will understand. 


The moon spills through the window, wrapping my bed in a milky bluish light. I pause to feel the air against my skin, that very border where my inner world ends and the rest of the world begins. I feel drowsy with what I bet is love. Even the most repressed being has a secret life with secret thoughts and secret feelings that are lush and wild and natural. I want to forever guard the place of my untamed self. Any time we feed the soul, it guarantees to increase.  


Aerial energy, a thick outpouring of the dark night, twisted tree, automatic witchcraft. We slack off on the spiritual level, always. We assume no one’s going to notice. Who’s looking? Even we are not. If the end point of all this spiritual labor isn't a lasting happiness, then what is the prize for the work of becoming human? Is the prize simply a few private moments between ourselves and the universe, which are so magnificent – moments of true grace? Or is the prize of all that spiritual effort just hearing, and being able to honestly say, I love you?


Sleeping zebras; golden wheat; night-blooming jessamine; the cruel queen’s nuptial procession. Crystal theaters; burning corpses; bruised ribs; forever learning; the ankle bracelet. Blaring songbirds; love felt as a pouring out; the heat-giving violin; cornucopia. A man’s piss splashing on violets along the esplanade; acacias swaying tall inside my body; thorns pricking the inner epidermis; placing my hair upon the bronze guillotine; the gods care but they also laugh. I climb out all grimy from the pit, hands clutching cold garnets. I feel no pain, just a heavy sweetness. 







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