My pamphlet 'Springing from the Pews' is available @brokensleep - proud co-founder of @queerbods
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ALT This longing you express is the return message. The grief you cry out from draws you toward union. Your pure sadness that wants help is the secret cup. Listen to the moan of a dog for its master. That whining is the connection.
ALT In Another Room I Am Drinking Eggs from a Boot BY FRANK STANFORD Hans Richter What if the moon was essence of quinine And high heels were a time of day When certain birds bled The chauffeur is telling the cook The antler would pry into ice floes Swim with a lamp And we’d be shivering in a ditch Biting through a black wing There would be boats There would be a dream country The great quiet humming of the soul at night The only sound is a shovel Clearing a place for a mailbox
![Grey Stone II, 1961 I buy tears at the store for $11.99. When I tilt my head back to drop them in, I see the bottom of God's shoes. I'm surprised by how dirty and used they are. Lately I see them pacing above me more and more. I can't tell if God is here to get me, help me, or scold me. Agnes used a pencil to score her painting, as if to fix something. Very few things never need surgery. The sky, rain, the word happy. I hold so tightly on to my pencil that I take it to sleep with me. On some days, I see a flash of light from my hand and fear it is happiness. I wave my hand wildly into the wind until the yellow pencil reappears. Yesterday, after seeing an Agnes painting in person, I decided to cut off my hand to save the pencil. It turns out my blood is white, the texture of gesso, and the pencil wasn't the one that needed saving. What happens when you're not supposed to be depressed? When depression becomes the form of your happiness? When your happiness is so sure [ran out of space]](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/G4N444PWMAAyt3q.jpg?name=orig)
ALT Grey Stone II, 1961 I buy tears at the store for $11.99. When I tilt my head back to drop them in, I see the bottom of God's shoes. I'm surprised by how dirty and used they are. Lately I see them pacing above me more and more. I can't tell if God is here to get me, help me, or scold me. Agnes used a pencil to score her painting, as if to fix something. Very few things never need surgery. The sky, rain, the word happy. I hold so tightly on to my pencil that I take it to sleep with me. On some days, I see a flash of light from my hand and fear it is happiness. I wave my hand wildly into the wind until the yellow pencil reappears. Yesterday, after seeing an Agnes painting in person, I decided to cut off my hand to save the pencil. It turns out my blood is white, the texture of gesso, and the pencil wasn't the one that needed saving. What happens when you're not supposed to be depressed? When depression becomes the form of your happiness? When your happiness is so sure [ran out of space]
ALT Autumn Day We queue to manage the balances of what we're owed to what we owe, orderly as souls in private panic before the Judgment, shuffling our documents as though judgment weren't already written in the Cloud. From the shop adjacent wafts the incense of coffee and the vulgar muffins, overstuffed as geese with funnels down their throats, truly the muffins of a culture on the brink of steep decline. To be no longer working means something differently to you and me, to those of us who will not walk, as in the promotional literature, on the equatorial beaches, will never point excitedly to the castles of Europe. Money buys the knowledge it isn't everything. With the face of a poet no longer young, but barely, and the manner of a registered nurse, our delegated financial advisor translates the truth of our condition to a language even we can understand: if you have no house now, you will never have one.
ALT FAMILY PHOTOGRAPH: A CONJUGATION I am standing in a doorway. My dress is blue. My hair swept up like hope. You stand beside me, young and thin. You hold our new son, a bright penny. She is there too, her head thrown back in laughter, her hands in her pockets. It is Christmas. We do not know this will be her last. You never know. You cannot know. They tell you everything but this.
ALT Clarity After the event the rockslide realized, in a still diversity of completion, grain and fissure, declivity & force of upheaval, whether rain slippage, ice crawl, root explosion or stream erosive undercut: well I said it is a pity: one swath of sight will never be the same: nonetheless, this shambles has relieved a bind, a taut of twist, revealing streaks & scores of knowledge now obvious and quiet.
