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@deusvacuus
Living Will
You deserve to be with someone who wants to live.
Everybody deserves THAT much.
But I have been killing time my entire life. Instead of killing something else.
I am holding my breath just the right way. Like Olympian training instead of like asphyxiation.
Carefully counting down the seconds until I no longer have to pretend that I want to exist.
Your Favorite Poetâs Favorite Poet
Letâs see what happens
When an echo meets a mirror
You were not born
But summoned of a cosmic need
Fed to the earth from starsâ teeth
Like some grand baby-birding
Not forged, so much as released
Your essence: a poem fully-formed in nascence
Like shower thoughts that scream to be written
Mid-steam
I shut off the water
Fingers hustle through the condensate
Words disappear even as I scribe the distillate
Beauty being: that even when I try
To capture you and canât
You do not vanish
Youâre colorfast; indissolute
(There, look, words need be birthed for you)
Some things no alphabet can harnessâŠ
Youâre what existed
Before novel consonant and vowel attempts
To capture sound
Before you, air was shorthand practice
In a fast-pitch game of astral physics
And Iâve seen you triage galaxies
Just by moving your hands
The way you put pressure- right where itâs
Needed- in the way you ask a question
Your language: the radicle and the fuse
Silence reorganizes; ablush, aâmused
And I never have to translate
Anything to you
__________________________
Maureen Armstrong @haikkun
Happy birthday to the one and only @deusvacuus đ€
Practice Makes Paralyzed
I am a shitty practicer.
Because I am a shitty teacher to myself.
I expect myself to already have an aptitude in order to deserve being given any attention of tutelage.
And honestly⊠where the fuck do I get off?
Thinking myself so high and mighty an authority that I can shame myself out of trying to do something new?
Critic.
Judge.
Accuser.
All those thrones that I reject when another sits in them over me.
But I get so righteously comfortable in that seat and cast myself out of even trying.
(For we are always complicit in our own incarcerations)
If this is some naive spirit of self-protectionâŠ
What precisely is it protecting me from?
Joy,
Foolishness,
Or everything in-between?
Hell is for the Empaths
Empathy is the final unforgivable sin.
To be troubled by the suffering of others is the essence of our earthly condition.
And as there is no capacity for being troubled in heaven, then there can be no empathy there.
That kingdom is âan apex of moral anesthesia.â
Graveyard
Just look at all these memorial items...
Physical manifestation of the attention and love that you receive and so much inert nothing that you will do with it.
You choose to place them all on the top shelf since youâd never let that sentimental energy inside of yourself.
Half of those trophies and memory prisms are the headstones of your former lovers. Spirits of relationships that you just bailed on.
The nicest room in my house is the graveyard, and I donât even bring flowers to it anymore.
ILFFY
I almost said it
I typed it out in parentheses in my draft and everything
âIâd learn French for you.â
It is a big deal and a little deal
Say something enough in your head
It is both hard fact⊠and fiction, nevertheless
Until you divulge it
I say it eighth-eight times a day, like my initials, âMLâ, were instead your name
Comes with some nicknames for you already, too
âLOMLâ
Most times just âLâ
What am I trying to say?
For once: not a question
Thus, even more peculiar: my hesitation
It is
The big
It is
Simplification
In a standard equation
Except you
Became exponentially infinite
Defyingly significantâŠ
Like white phosphorus warrants caution
I put on gloves, make up excuses
But take out the words (the stinger)
And my eyes still
Sing it
âI adore youâ
I can say that
_____________________________
Maureen Armstrong @haikkun
IFRIT
You must know by now that I burn for youâŠ
Tinder.
Kindling.
Conflagrating phosphorescence.
Like a Phoenix rising...
(Or an impending death by immolation)
You Are The God Particle
Iâm not actually upset at fate
Doing her little spate again
Iâm not struggling to relinquish my power
Iâm struggling
To relinquish
The belief
That A N Y O N E could
Take overâŠ
Usurp and blow past the place of the only who ever held the measure
When Iâd given up the hope
And reconciled with it forever
The one I could let go of never
Havenât yet⊠and still you whistle past with your elbows and end
The reign of the crown he hadnât outgrown
The wicked watch is dead
My allegiance -never brittle- broke, and I
Support the new Lord, in full accordance
Long live the King
And it seems
I have to hold past in one hand
Limp but still beating
While suffused with this newsâŠ
That Iâm in love with you
It is a scream and a celebration and a gobsmack to my in-shock cerebellum and
If I struggle
Itâs just in awe
Just in shock and awe and gratitude and sadness, too
For I didnât really believe gods could die
Until today
~
To be wrong
In the most beautiful wayâŠ
____________________________________
Maureen Armstrong @haikkun
Higgsâ Field Rations
Before entertaining any claims of deistic particularity, we ought to restate what is already plainly publicizedâŠ.
âAny such particle sufficiently resembling a God must manifest itself as a momentary (albeit exciting) emergence event from within a pre-diffused field of a specific energetic flavor.â
Note also that a solitary emergence of this sort confirms the possibility of additional states and conditions of kindred emergence to follow.
Moreover, for you to be receiving and interpreting such energy waves across this intellectual medium, despite the vast physical space intervening, it strongly implies an intrinsic potential towards the physics of cooperative entanglement.
So then, have you considered that in order to recognize a God Particle youâd have to also be an embodiment of one yourself?
Such that all these parts of me are also parts of you. With all our vectors and constants aligned and arranged as irreducible particulars.
These quantum numbers sum to Two.
With the newfound awareness of the presence of another causing even more aggressive abhorrence of all the vacuums within which we often find ourselves suspended and alone.
Will you entangle with me?
Taming
We all develop a dying entity
Defining and refining a personality construct that is always in decay.
Shaping the sands.
No matter how futile it might feel.
Oil slick runs out from my eyes
A product of the soreness of never sleeping
I wrestle with the rope that stretches between conviction and annihilation.
The duality of leash and garrote.
Collar and noose.
Tame and Dead.
Vacant.
Unoccupied.
Internal wilderness defeated.
Old forest beaten down
into a cracking crosswalk,
or an abandoned playground,
The night songs of the animals
Are just soft TV static now.
Something out of broadcast.
Its frequency yet unfound
Sweet Wolf
I know
I know
I know
I knowâŠ
But an identity is not mine to bestow
Rather yours to bare
And you walk your walk like the beat of a wolfâs terre
Itâs yours
And I canât unseeâŠ
Plus, you sneak, cheekily, beneath previous shortsighted rules
Stalking well beneath the limbo pole
Itâs a whole new species
Never existed before:
The wolf with the heart of gold
Smart and sharp, but sweet⊠dreamily
And where did my fear
To call someone something go?
I donât knowâŠ. Perhaps down your hungry throat
Voluntarily, eagerly,
Like Little Red Riding Hood with a kink
But maybe this is the most powerful protective spell
Instead of calling you nothing at all
I go for the first pull that broke me
The nickname that brokered my whole abandonment fear in the first place
Like we wear masks on Halloween to scare off what scares us
It seems just crazy enough that it could work
Either way, My Little Wolf of the Steppes
Welcome to this corner of the universe
Where Iâve been waiting to introduce
Yourself to me
__________________________________
Maureen Armstrong @haikkun
Nomen Aevum
Just like an inky quill carving into the skin⊠With aromatic blood mixing freely into the script. What cuts the deepest is that I knew the name that you would give to me before you ever spoke it aloud. It was so clearly written in the stars already. Originally etched into that grander heavenly canvas. All those tiny points of light reflecting back the constellatory shape I was always going to take.
(Wolfling) ((Sirius)) (((Canis Residua))) ((((Wolf of the Steppes))))
There is a sameness to destiny and futility. They are two emotive sides of the same cosmic coin. Ends of a complete Atmanic reaction spectrum after witnessing one's own infinite image.
Darling, do you see your undying spirit as a triumph or as an imprisonment...? How does your Infinite Name taste on your own tongue? Do you wash and shine all these grand chalices of language like itâs an Olympian syntheke? Is your fated status Herculean or Sisyphean? Have you been mercilessly chained to this life sentence of beautiful poetic expression, and if so, is it terrible of me to be so hungry while crouching nearby to witness all the pages unfold?
A lone canine creature... Hungry for another bite of flesh from these freshly oxygenated emanations of your written word.
Black Hole Math
Loneliness is a given Regardless of the precedent This is the cost of a heart-beating One cannot be the sun or the stars forever Their tenure is temporary However, the Black Hole is always there, beyond the horizon, burying any satellites I send out They may be happier collapsing into the singularity
Isolation is a known quantity A calculable pain. An acceptable risk I know exactly how hard I can implode.
Lost?
To be âlostâ implies that there is some place you are always required to be, and only the guardians of that expectation (yourself included) can render the judgment that you are anywhere or nowhere wrongly.
So how much then do you contribute to your own feelings of lostness. If you werenât yelling after that version of yourself who is always running ahead on the trail and laughing along with the forest: would that version be better or worse off? For one manâs getting lost is another manâs getting better.
Being your own best caretaker, when you stop obsessively keeping track of where youâre going and where youâve gone, then you can finally experience the freedom of not being kept in so small a crate as your own narrowest expectations make.
I choose to believe that at all moments, youâre not supposed to be anywhere except where you are right then. Really, how could you be anywhere else?
Re:Learning
Did you know that learning is actually just a long game? Of learning and relearning and RElearning the same things. Weâve had these conversations before and still⊠I see I have fallen victim to the same door-to-door shiller of âyou are off the path againâŠâ and the salesman is actually ME. Again?!? Damn. Sheâs goodâŠ. đ
âHow much do I contribute to my own feelings of lostness?â
How much do I love maps?
I mean, really?? I have 4 globes and two wall maps in my bedroom. My question is not metaphorical. And yet how much do they prevent me from traversing said world? My possessions weigh me down and keep me from moving overseas again or walking away for a year. But also⊠they move me.
Behind the chuckle of such very real corporeal imagery, I have the bear of constant self-reflection paired with negative self-talk and dizziness from spinning myself around trying to orient my compass (which should know its way by now). How many times I use the word âshouldâ in these woods. In the âwouldâs.
You were- and are- absolutely right. And I adore and appreciate the swallowing of the lesson again, to lessen whatever tendency it has of bailing out of my compass hands. Thatâs all we can hope for, isnât it? Learning â” relearning.
Maureen Armstrong @haikkun
Physics
You know how grown men
Can be taken down like a bullet
By a bee?
Itâs like trying to chase
A bee with a bullet
Press the pillow so hard
Against your ear
You hear it like a clock beating
Keeping track
Of nothing
___________________________
Maureen Armstrong @haikkun
Ballistics
Honey, you called it all physics but maybe you meant ballistics (you know, like with a âBeeâ) The problem with parabolic motion is that it is just a manifestation of inevitability. An âalready-happenedâ which comes to be at the moment a trigger is touched. All the forces involved donât know how to do anything besides to guide a round down its predetermined arcing path. With gravity, wind resistance, and angular rotation all as silent accomplices to the process's completion. But youâre damn right that men can fold in half and completely lose their momentum when something tiny and unyielding touches them with its sting. And may this falling be an act of ballistics, too. Fragile bodies collapsing down the inevitable arc, accompliced by the forces of their own false fortitude, delusions of being bullet bee proof, and whatever wrath their acts have wrought upon them.
These are the ballistics of broken men. Only strong when theyâre safe. And only safe when they can steal it at everyone elseâs expense. If you press your ear into the chest of one such fallen man for long enough youâll eventually hear a clock stop too. No more metronome for their mendacious mortality. And with nothing left to keep track of their nothing... Biology can take over where ballistics left off.
(and did you know that Trigona necrophaga bees evolved to digest dead animals?)
Diabetes Ingaudium
I attune to other peopleâs expressions of joy because I cannot make it for myself. Type-2; Experientially destroyed sensitivity to emotional insulin.
âSo now I have to supplement this forever. That expensive and precious resource which only other people can manufacture for my eventual consumption.
Published for Public Consumption
In my desperate desire to be understood... I publish a book of poems with only empty pages. It's been edited down so as not to reveal any inner truths which I am afraid of someone else not accepting. The version of me that is easiest to consume has no content. "The heart of it has already been slain"
Primitive Cardiology
I could barely chew through my words on that particular 36-hour day. After all the tangled-up heartstrings and the sideways rain, I exclaimed: "Given enough time and data. I'll turn the study of my heart into a science."
Why Do I Wait When I Know You Have a Lover?
When I die tomorrow
I need you to know
That my sorrow
Bought this alcohol
And my love
Bought your parole
And when the man upstairs
Asks me, Maâam?
How do you plead?
Iâll say
I begged the same each day
For your face, my sweet
For
Your face
____________________________
Maureen Armstrong @haikkun
All tomorrowâs orchards
I cannot tell you precisely what youâre waiting for.
Maybe just one red bite of fruit from the tree of what could become.
A taste of the possibility that something real and filling might finally grow up from any of these hopeful seeds.
The ones you put into your pouch just for showing the smallest indication of having some life inside them.
If only they could see how tenderly we taught ourselves to dream-cultivate so many potential orchards with just the littlest glimmer of hope to start from. Would they decide to finally show a sprout, or would they remain so coldly enclosed?
For me, itâs a respite to realize that those vivid red apples of my reckoning were going to shine back to me with the sunbeam-reflection of my own faces upon them anyways.
But wouldnât it be sweet if that orchard were planted right next to someone elseâs?
All of my blessings for your future orchards, may they grow even sweeter than in your imagining.
(And if I was certain to die tomorrow, Iâd still plant a seed today.)
Status Materiae
He sits within the discomfort of a worthy uncertainty.
More ambiguous than a vapor trapped in a container with indefinite edges.
This is an entirely new state of matter which results from precise ratios of silence and yearning.
