Trauma

hold your throat right there,
naked child with no sleeves.
take me to your cave to be worn,
wretched, dry, salivating.
caps on your teeth to root
the dreams.
hold me to your chest,
that time it was the deepest.
white planes gobble time
with great ease.
kissed meant cut,
creap, zip went the thread.
forgone slots like fixed
sewn skin.
grieve for twenty four
then be solved.
loose, fluid, bleeding some
irresistable blood.

stillborn

Now. Today I sit in waiting. Wanting badly to find myself in a moment where no element of life is being conceptualized or conceived in such a way that robs itself from the beauty of living. To achieve this state of being in the past few years, some degree of intoxication has been of some degree of necessity. We vacate our plain minds for the purposes of expansion and existing in the moment. College classic.

Empty tall-boys of Ice-House, resinated bubblers, and Glad zip-lock baggies of marijuana, half smoked, are sprinkled throughout the university town on this early Sunday morning. I awake, at eight a.m., the time clock of my body ticking me out. Even all the yearbook faces at the Guns-N-Roses cover band show last night weren't of any comfort. Now that certain token friends have dispersed, is the positive prospect of Isla Vista mute? Leading to the question, was it ever of truthful satisfaction?

Stillborn. The first of generations to grow up in a faction lacking the endorsement of God. Instead, aesthetics have taken over. Perceiving the ideal in looks and notes contrived by images on screens. But the irony of being bare in a desert with nothing but our challenged senses is that people loose their common access. Free agency may give them greater creative license than ever before, but these diaphanes upon diaphanes render the person impenetrable. The person, when asked "How are you?" isn't even really there. They are so cacooned by the egocentric-encouraging religion of our 21st century that no one matters except that/ or those that rile us from our paralysis by making us feel.

Felt. When that other plane is accessed it's like a drug. Let me self-knowingly correct. It is a drug. Translucent orange pill bottles, sexual ecstasy, smoke balloons, exercise adrenaline--people--all there to prick the stillborn into existence. Okay yes, sometimes it is just as simple as looking through a window and seeing the ocean, or discovering with open eyes a flower growing through the asphalt. These things have hope to awaken. But are often only appreciated by those that are self-consciously aware of being stillborn. For most, appreciation for such things seems rare unless the object, or scene directly reaches out to that particular individual, awareness only provided by yet another screen or talking head, telling the numb to see or feel. Oversight more times than not, kills any form of sovereign appreciation.

So what now that we're born already dead to ourselves and each other unless accessed by drugs or screens? You tell me, because as of late, I can't seem to find any comforting resolutions...