Saturday, October 10, 2015

A PALM A COLUMN

 "Anything found in the desert of a frustrated life can bring hope. With hope comes love. With love comes hate. So I possess her. May God help her in her misery and unhappiness."
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I can see in my mind, as if from the ground, back of head on ground.
Witness to an angle.

Staring up at the tips of green palm leaves, they sit at the top of my vision,
Baby blue in between,
The top of a boring column, hangs at the bottom of my vision.



See you in my head discalced and calm,
in a gutter of trees. They threw those things away.
















I wrap press tighten my hand around the part of you too much like a sea palm's stipe.
It slips inside its own rigidity.
Cribriform column I can hold.



















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I need to stop. I wish I could expand STIPE into something greater.
I want you to feel a deeper impression of the word.




















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"I also have a maxim, father: give me three lines of a man's handwriting and I will hang him."

Some book imagining all this "wickedness" in the life of St Teresa of Avila, fictionalized, sensationalized. I'm going to buy it. All afraid it will disappoint. But she did, she wanted to tell us.


"As I have been commanded and left at liberty to describe at length my way of prayer, and the
workings of the grace of our Lord within me, I could wish that I had been allowed at the same time
to speak distinctly and in detail of my grievous sins and wicked life. But it has not been so willed;
on the contrary, I am laid herein under great restraint; and therefore, for the love of our Lord, I beg
of every one who shall read this story of my life to keep in mind how wicked it has been; and
how, among the Saints who were converted to God, I have never found one in whom I can have
any comfort. For I see that they, after our Lord had called them, never fell into sin again; I not only
became worse, but, as it seems to me, deliberately withstood the graces of His Majesty, because I
saw that I was thereby bound to serve Him more earnestly, knowing, at the same time, that of myself
I could not pay the least portion of my debt."

Like any good nun, thorough in her self flagellation.
If I'd known the time I'd tell her how I've spent days succussing bodies of girls, feel what's moving inside of them like a sealed vial being tipped back and forth slowly, motion of my palm gently slamming against, creating slight suction, water in their body like a Bach remedy. Or infected spinal fluid.


She wanted to tell us. Everything I can't know, the grief of it can put me away, cataleptic and dumb mouth open, for minutes at a time. Grief over unknown pieces of history, can you think of investing cognition into anything more vain and pointless because I cannot.

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my hand is falling all the hell around holding a pencil makes light marks makes me feel there is nothing in my person in between temples in this space that holds the stuff of my body little marks make me feel worse than i did before it is why i could understand how devastating those white housepaint paintings with those equally light pencil marks and broken sentences or words or just tallies of some unknown measuring of things or times really were and i wanted to step inside one and feel worse to match what rolls all the hell around in a ribcage like this equal it to the feeling of the time when a boy told me he went down on a girl and she tasted like mountain dew it is not something i can say at all.

That's it.

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