unfaithful_altars werewolf Lips turned up with all of our hands, heavy like that sisyphus rock, sent from afar up a rickety chain, like history, loose around a bicycle chain, sending trepidation up me in the same way, when my speed is too great to care. but history is forgotten! the feeling has the containment of a game! the rules are here on their own. no one asks where chess started, they just chase that king, usually too soon with the queen if they've never before well you know.... a dream is broken down into its colors. okay, so i told you i'd tell you and i'm gonna, Her Body!: the extra truths, where all the arguments exist, hidden, the second or third layer of a smirk carving upwards and widening to neutrality like a simulation. her stomach warm and touchable like wet cement in the sun. trading down and trading down. arguments with myself, with all of the lessons we learn and teach by learning, crowd around entrances to some vast sprawling underground storm shelter within her, like barbarians around what are actually slight distinctions in texture and color. you have reached something new but are too close to even tell anymore. your memory is shortened, raging hoardes wait for orders from one another. the set of all colors and touches, isn't visible but lingers in your mind like the unknown villian, like grendel or the second coming of cereberus. but disarming is the actual benigness of difference, when reflected on my face in breath. the differences are of course startling, holes in the universe, bending of triangles, music transposeable, unrepeatable etc. etc. we hold off the roiling within us with agreed upon customs, points of common leaving off. our names for each other, names that now haunt us- a laugh that cost too much. and your body giving me the strength to pray. because before i touched it, i believed in it like some believe in god. of course i was not quite on, but i saw that this was what i had been constructing idols to. faith seemed everywhere after i opened my eyes and you were still next to me. Your words, the soft taut of oceans and baby fat were a forgiving surrounding for the hard points of elbows and knees, those hinges of possibility. your body, all of the hauntings in it become something you let me use to touch the body we all agree should be devoid of them. that body in our dreams that we corrupt over and over again, that child in our heart we teach compulsively without ever asking if it's time to stop. I still remember, when we both are convinced the other is sleeping, we say a prayer for them and know there is no other way. 021211 ... scuzz Those altars, so believably touchable, exist from and among men. They leave nothing in their short wake. No true hope, just the person that created it. I want to kneel to one altar, because others are never the right depth. Reaching to another leaves me facing the gap between, kneeling toward distant crowds. blurred. I cried. Forever I find possibilities, unknowingly creating altars for others. Broken promises, bending, compromising 'faith.' I have trouble praying to my altar, wondering who's next to me, trying not to look. What do I fear. Not a question. There is no answer. So many altars, so little hope to the side of this one. Music calms, people touch, pills break the silence they cause. Touch will only ever do so much. Don't learn, just understand. Faith is not warm butter. 021225 ... unhinged the dirt made me so much more comfortable. the aching beauty of surrealism i didn't understand makes a little more subconcious sense to me now. it's all falling apart now. it WAS childlike idealism although i saw nothing childlike about it at the time; cause now i know that it will never end up the way i imagined it then so i don't even waste my time anymore imagining. unfaithful but true...'nobody let's go when they should....waiting for the moment that's never coming by, nobody let's go when they should oh' it was all so dirty and true. and the landscapes flash before me;i was comfortable there in the dirt. 031121 ... unhinged my heart remembers you even maybe if i shouldn't learning how to lay down the burden (s) my young heart picked_up the obstacles i created the spiritual endeavor of my middle age 200927 what's it to you? who go blather from