All my burn(s) “All poets write bad poetry. Bad poets publish them, good poets burn them.” ― Umberto Eco Con/Jur/d, 3/8/2024 Don’t remember the first one bad enough father became an ambulance driver, they would tell me, pulled long strips of skin off and sucked on them being only 3, and my nerves were deadened by the coals The 2nd is relatively clear, the unseen electric coil leaning on the 70s stove, chatting about school women, mother tsks, remember the tsking before the smell of hot polyester, the glance over flanneled shoulder, the flames, mom yelling out as I rolled rolled Rolled, loved the MDMA cohort called the wiggling dancing sitting still bliss rolling, and during the peak of this ingesting In-Jest-ing of our chemical gods lived in fear lived in fear Of becoming ash reliving the after effects, because while you're burning, you only burn The pain unbearable only after, in the reflection, remember once, under influence of LSD at a campsite with friends, and two were rolling and feeling that heart-to-heart to loin-to-loin buzz deciding to jog down hill and following and veering off the road into a human-free midnight pool Complete with waterfall, swirling animate breathing liquids, whispering winds, sapient rocks and leaves down deep in the whirlpool compressed No up No down No side to side Held like you are now by everything and nothing And didn’t know which way to go to breathe and swam toward Towards the ash Toward the ashes Of all this future poetry.
Your Life is a Divination
3/10/2024, Con/Jur/d
I have problems reading poetry
the best of it cuts me open
leaves my viscera subject to the
celebrations of birds,
and their auguries
The rest, leaves me with
a taste of suffering looking for
fulfillment
I have problems writing poetry
I have little interest
in opening
other people's puzzle boxes, though
tend to admire
them as you do
a need to open mine first, align the intricate
raised knots and whirls of karma,
the-seamless-dharma
reveal the
endless midnight field
the crossroads, here, at our center
with the problem and bargains,
we can only solve,
deal with
together (the giving and taking of offerings)
Here, where we are revealed as stars navigating stars
as trees unrooted, better to hold each other ground
in stable orbits, gales and breezes our breath
cosmic rays and gravity waves
strengthening and
breaking our hearts and bones
Growing together,
into this moment
of problemlessness,
whose only precedence (like)
a storms center
birds (carrion, raptors, mostly song)
calmly, and silently spiraling overhead,
over
flowing&
flowering
with divinatory grace.
Longer Towards, What?
3/9/2024
regardless of when
or of how much we attempt
to document
We’ll just stop
And later, a future incident
we’ll read or hear something
And know,
as if we had said it ourselves
Yes,
this is how it is.
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 3/10/2024
