Materia

what are we made of?

[materia-metanoia]

Reclamation

Honeycombed carapace

Puppeteered by the wind

Whispering through the holes

That weave through its form

A spirit that is diffuse

Unrecognizable to itself.

The cloud of awareness

That coats the husk

In a layer of condensation

When the mannequin is still

The fervent fluid explores.

It is infant,

And the wind blows from infinity

Into a net masquerading as a cup.

That mind that grows between the two,

The roots and sinew fill the gaps.

The orifices whistle a different tune,

As the dry bone is fertilized with will.

I choose to be the blood

The gasoline

The plant that overtakes the unused structure.

[materia-metanoia]

[materia-metanoia]

Reclamation

Honeycombed carapace

Puppeteered by the wind

Whispering through the holes

That weave through its form

A spirit that is diffuse

Unrecognizable to itself.

The cloud of awareness

That coats the husk

In a layer of condensation

When the mannequin is still

The fervent fluid explores.

It is infant,

And the wind blows from infinity

Into a net masquerading as a cup.

That mind that grows between the two,

The roots and sinew fill the gaps.

The orifices whistle a different tune,

As the dry bone is fertilized with will.

I choose to be the blood

The gasoline

The plant that overtakes the unused structure.

[materia-metanoia]

Two-eyed

A love acidic leaves tracks in the vessels

In runs through seeking matter to break down

I am the refuse

The scars rest

They languish in my restless sleep

I dream of the language

In the dream the burrows weep

My chest heaves

The muscle sags and sputters

Unprocessed my body glitches

Catches on the little things

Bone deep I am eating

My teeth comb finely through my being.

I am the sapling

Rooted in soil wet

With all manners of waste.

Their eyes kept barely above sea level

Their vision swimming with old tears.

They are sitting

Ripe for the picking

I have no bark,

When I see myself.

[materia-metanoia]

M

The stomach of being relaxes

In their presence

High caloric

Complex and compressed,

Raising their hands yields no ceiling

But the walls of the One Being

Are visible.

Their height rendered the blue flesh intangible

Of a sky blue and lethal

Blood-warm static looks up as it

Grazes the Earth's surface,

At their past, future and the

Hollow silence of a noticed present.

[materia-metanoia]

on devotion II

Without warning the love echoes through me.

But does it? I feel drained. I blow out derision like an engine. The indecision is taxing and I run only on what is needed. My fear not particularly sharp or paralyzing but a swift change in gear.

It's when I stop caring what is on the other end and turn inward to the hollow growing there And I name it. Verbosely.

So it matters, And has three or four dimensions to move in. My body attacks itself enough, Some part of me should be spared.

Pinned like a butterfly for myself or others to Fixate on. The thought-form God-of-My-Pain. I think that this abyss is simply where my mind rests After it's done bathing in chemicals, But if it is a genuine place, I can't tell. I don't allow myself to.

[materia-metanoia]

room

When i get room to breathe, my ideas have soil to root in, is it a green room? is taking time off work to decompose in your room actually more like composting? things are clearly growing!

[materia-metanoia]

Anti-what?

I am the am-not

Where things do not come to pass

I am

I do

Of course I do

And where I do it becomes odd

Where I fit I am not

And the profusion of me is truth

I bleed where I am pruned

A handsome shape

I am obscured.

Unheard of, me

And yet in the quiet

Of mist rain watering the moss

That is constantly growing

The cold-wet fur is felt

And in the days that pass

The beauty-seeker walking by

Will find a big green patch.

A handsome hedge

I am not

I am found where meaning is lost.

[materia-metanoia]

ness

The internals of words are cored out

I look at them.

The innards make no sound.

My name,

A shroud over an opening.

The white flag over a pinhole.

The eyes that emerge from them.

Vector in their movement.

The orifice is minute.

I look in

Squint.

I crouch, locomote.

The dark at the end of the tunnel has no volume.

My path it tapers,

Confining my movement soul.

I am bared,

Essential.

Inside out.

The mass,

Weight and lattice of all thoughts.

My body is too big to fit the path.

It must be shed to reach the end.

[materia-metanoia]

Currence

The skin is overtaxed

Keeping in the question

Of the birth that has elapsed

The toll of change and

The yoke.

The tearing of the skin

In want to react all-that-be

The insides of this lit candle

Cast an odd red through the blood container.

Revolting I am,

Burning through the taut film

If the light stays in

It will go bad

And burst out

A marvelous crescendo.

The easiest thing to be

Oneself

Grating against the other selves,

The fear-grit sandpaper does not polish

But tears at my thin skin.

My pain is myriad

My joy knife-like in it's wake

Yet it slips like water in the hand

My grip too afraid to house it.

I pay

You pay

We all pay the toll.

[materia-metanoia]

Semi

Space to breathe

Space to be

The rot of the love green

The meanness rendered obsolete.

Blowing it out

The wind chills

Freezes my gaseous mind

It's surface gleams but only reflects

Too hard for anything to grow

The thawing season yet come

As I clear out the dead leaves

The caustic prisoner walks out.

Peeling or flipping my insides out

Not to bloat in the sun

But to scrub under the faucet.

I seek to become bloodless.

The marrow slow in it's coldness

Pink crystals build in anticipation

They form light soft arrays

And do not calcify.

The unbuilt creature sweetens with age.

The layers of the aroma of the meat,

It is cured with patience

And into itself it is enjoyed.

[materia-metanoia]

Phototaxis

Slow bending,

Light motion towards the bright,

Days pass and I stretch surely,

Trust like the green trunk,

That supports my weight.

I expand into space,

And as I take it up,

It holds me.

From tandem container and substance emerges,

The merge of seeing and being.

I soak it up,

The world's gaze upon my focused eyes,

And we lock stares,

A channel of silent communication.

Their great attention collapsing into the weight of a question.

I breathe in answer,

I ponder in answer.

I suffer in answer,

I bloom in answer.

And I choose to unfold the mystery rather than control it.

[materia-metanoia]

Inertia by Inertia

A thousand cuts

Or maybe ten but

I'm feeling bad,

And that's enough.

My body laps

A path threading through

My very own needle

To sew my day in place.

My cup is full in that

Novel way,

Where the surface tension makes

The water bulge.

The skin is thin

Trembles in the wind,

And the smallest cut

Would dye it pink.

Not quite death but

Closer still.

Not quite me but

I'm All-That-Is.

It's never enough but

My vessel strains.

My soul wanders but

I remain.

[materia-metanoia]

Mercurial

My ankles strain with the beginnings of wings in them,

Rod of nerves down my back conducting the light within.

I meet the earth with a charge,

Resistance in my muscle and fat,

Goosebumps on my skin.

I want to commune with the earth,

I want to go into her.

The lake-eyed stillness of a staring content between us,

I hope to see the passing of my own seasons.

The scent of fear as the line I so tenuously tend to

Frays with each breath the ground and I share.

I want to be here.

I want here to be me.

Growing new legs new lungs and hands that see.

The organism fits into its life and death,

Inevitably.

[materia-metanoia]

Concession

This too,

Is life.

A turned face to a loud room

Silent in their solitude.

An empty street,

Teeming with life.

An ice lance of pain,

Greeting a heavily injured old cat,

My neighbor,

Another part of me.

One movement,

The electricity of my feet,

Rooting to the asphalt,

Giving the earth her due.

Talking with her about what

I am to do.

Ticking boxes and sieving through money past spent,

Tracking prey's movements to get them better next time.

The people's life on a timer.

Baking them till their gizzards pop out of their skin.

Corralling people who have been running from birth.

This too is life.

[materia-metanoia]

makerdream

Something for my body,

As imperfect as it.

Extending my self through a machine

To make a mantle from my dream.

An image that came to me in the day,

When my mind wandered to an unbeaten place.

Where the garb to weather it was on my avatar,

Where the use-case for them was triple-tense.

The clothes I did not know I wanted,

The amalgamation of my wants and not-wants,

The threads I will join in the future.

Three-fold garments that make causal sense.

The gender they lack,

I will not be filling.

Because I wear them with my changing phenomena,

Of the illusion of a body.

The delusion of one,

Of many small parts cohering as they agree on the Time to do so.

That time is every moment,

And there has been little dissent.

My refraction through the eyes of the people, the water, the ground,

Gives me myriad colors,

Wherein would I put the Gender?

Where do I fit my tiny proboscis,

In the growing grove of my community?

Will I make them vestments,

To raise to the moment that we abide?

[materia-metanoia]

Tepid

I'm in the cool,

Wading in a fertile half-warm corner of the sea,

The water is enriched with a dubious tincture,

There is blood in it,

But only the most ravenous nip at it.

And I'm in the deep,

Not the depths,

The abyss is too knowing for me,

But where I can't be seen but can see.

The recreation of the ocean under my skin,

Still hot as the engine has been going for 24 years,

There is water in the blood,

And now,

I am warming in agreement with my ocean.

My organs do not know the light,

They are dark and safe.

The eyes focusing the all encompassing spectacle to

A molecular now.

I sit in an empty break room in the cool,

No AC but no bodies to warm except mine,

Warm at this moment enough to smolder the tinder of my thoughts,

Not yet enough for

the phosphorus of my ass,

Still submerged in oil.

Still at rest.

I learn the easy way by looking into the flame,

Where the instances of life's before mine,

Burned and lived,

And loved to create this one.

And hated to create this one.

I learn the hard way by being all at once,

Cool to the touch and hollowed clean by lightning's

regular conversation with the dirt I am.

[materia-metanoia]

Walker I

Feet on the ground,

I separate from the earth to become me.

The charge of my walking and

The scope of my eyes

I see the distance from other lightning rods and

Wish to taste them.

My thoughts wander to the idea of rerooting myself and

Taking up nutrients from the soil,

But my hopes and dreams are tethered by silver string,

In the air where I am hopeless to follow.

The future does not hold.

It is not.

I kick myself to remember this.

Me adrift,

My body holds no moss, friends, lichens or memories.

Ancestors also cut short by a machete.

My ties to the people who reflect love through me,

Are just that.

Intentionally fastened and maintained unless the vessel moves quickly,

Causing it to unravel.

What I am owed is paid in the world I am

As the universe's sense organ.

Understanding is not a precursor to being part of I and the Universe's single action.