cutting the red tape.

Autonomy is an aquatic creature unable to survive outside the fluid that is one’s own soul.

Strangle.

Do I hold these words? Do I withdraw these sentences from the shoulders that they wrap around? You hold those you love in embrace what it is you desire. I hold those near with pros and cons and shameful vernacular, not by its quality, but its purpose…its intent. And what intent! To break the limbs that bind passion at swollen fingertips. My words are my hands, the sentences my arms that wrap around you and pull you close. Cheek to cheek - two there - too close - to find what connects them. The syntax that shadows me is not my house as it is my cell. Fortressing me, suffocating me with this diction that strangles without release, and maims all that fall under its inexorable tongue. I too hide behind these pretentious white caverns but it is not the poison that I drink. It is not my blood that seeps from these wounds. And although they are my words that are wrapping around you, it is your love that strangles me.

The Temple.

Like her. Beneath me. Sweating. Rising and falling to the palpitations of two hearts beating in discord. Sweat beads around her hairline and drips down her temple. On my knees I hold my hands and pray to her till she intones my name. Resonating within her walls around my fingers and down my arm. She anoints my lips with her oils. Still I pray. Still I kneel. Still I twist knuckle deep in the holiness that is the goddess.

Hungry.

You see, it wears on me, like an un-tuned string - pushing and pulling
by the bow of mediocrity. What is it that drives me to tears and pulls
my strength from my core? What is it that takes the soul from my eyes
and turns little salt crystals such as these to liquid and causes them
to drip from freckle to freckle connecting the dots? I am still lost. I
am still searching to grasp…to understand this thing inside me. This
thing I call Artist. This thing that I feed with paint and pigment and
toxic chemicals that serve my body cancer on a silver platter. It is
creation. And with creation there is always sacrifice. So what am I
sacrificing now? My sanity. My rite to comfort. My gentleness. My
ability to make sense. Though I wonder, does it really matter…to make
sense? Wouldn’t it be nice if words could be exchanged so that the
heart is full and the mind is hungry and the ego is somewhere in a corner bleeding from its stab wounds?