untitled / regression 1 & 2

April

1.

sitting here under the sun, near the trees and sweating. i’ve come to revere sweating almost ritualistically. it is very grounding, the same way that periods are; messy and relentless. children go by on their cycles. the wind grazing my neck mercifully. ants crawling into my bag. a leaf dangling from the flimsy stature of these trees for each person i used to know only about 2 weeks ago. winged silhouettes scattering over the rocks as i remember i haven’t eaten all day. days will go by, as they have, or perhaps they will change their substance.

2.

nights are unabating in lightness. the tender, little humming of a mosquito alone throws me into alertness. shallow burrows are hollowed out in my mattress where i lay my body. there is now one by each side. it seems people that have gone away and ones i have gone away from exist in my body. it seems i am indelibly tethered, glued to the wisps of their presence that make their way in and out my window. i am watchful of the faces in the art prints taped to my wall under the tubelight as i am of them. lately i feel compelled to open and shut my body like a clamp. propel and fold. sweat forms a creek through the guidance of the hairs along my limbs. after this momentary delectation i wade into tiresome disillusion again. if i lie very still on my stomach i find i am musty like the soft grease of old lipstick. identical fragments of my self remain in those whom i have touched closely enough, replicating like the microcosmic appendages of illness. spreading thinly as though smothered by the overbearing lightness of time. why must we leave behind and be left? freedom must be elsewhere, nowhere, if not in picking at the filaments along your body where people leave their residue. it is about easy enough for closing words to be questions. warmth of a hand flickering down the sides of your torso.

the fool ----> 9 of swords [thru the houses]