like, first, outsider artists and in memory of molly. the whole making of milk. i need to pull out my papers. we were barely 20 somethings, painting on warped wood. she was a sailor, a hero, a heroine. before i knew the difference, before i knew
the importance. the skin blistering welts of white sun, high july sweat like swamp breath, mudflats, sulphur muck dripping into squinted eye
so, that’s where i’d begin. how do i make that equate, make sense with? penguins. i am in your cave again–they mate for life. chthonic. somehow you mix up w the cutey i could see myself with in another life. parallel lines running off towards some infinite universe from here? the brain wash the uspide down. i talk to mother mary when i’m nervous, mama nature when i cannot sleep. you’re chill, you say, just down for companionship i hear you explain and catch on the fact that your folks–moved to a tax free state–are still together. good news? absentee fathers, in the words of silent ann, the original sin
so i’m not a man. so i have caves where i can go. so i buried more than one before that was norm, so the birds talk tar squawk & i’m fluent, i guess, in crow.
the sun is out again, memorial to fog, written backwards still don’t spell god
granma mist, queen of birds, effigy mounds &
taking risks. i’ll do this again, if it’s what i need. through it i’ll go, i believe it bc it’s clear and clean as still water i can see all the way through
if only that meant i believed.