Ashley Bear

I.

Bear trap snapped, crunched

her auburn ankle of fur,

bloody, vulnerable howls.

I was the only one around

but would I risk my own life

to save this sobbing, powerful beast,

this Bear of transformation, 

strength, introspection, knowledge, and dreams?

II.

Come, broken one, be worthless with me.

We’ll never try to validate the valueless

(ourselves).

We’re equals—both products of a

forsaken sacred marital union.

No arguments— in Zen with our nullity.

You won’t say, underhandedly, how my ass looks fat in these shorts

and I won’t complain about your missing bowtie.

Tucked in each other’s arms, my comrade, Ashley Bear,

we are secure.

You teach me how to talk to foreboding, verboden God

and a flighty, flakey Higher Self.

And I give life to your otherwise

cotton-stuffed state of Turiya.

Until:

III.

You were replaced by the embrace of a man,

the figurehead, transformed.

Not into a better version.

No, a carnivorous butterfly.

And I thought

they were so damn great

with their masculine charm,

endearing awkwardness

so I let them act as my Higher Self.

Conflicted.

IV.

I’ve gotta save her from the trap,

take the risk of her jaw snapping hard

for the path I’m following

is leading me to extinction

anyhow.

I’ve gotta get my Bear back.

I’ve gotta save the sobbing beast

to invoke the Bear in me.

Untitled

Monday.

Nine thousand degrees,

misanthrope lunch break, hiding in a greenhouse car,

a Venusian heat island. Life a mess, marked by clutter:

drink containers, paper & plastic bags,

used brake fluid, residue of too many weekends,

detached & running away from myself

chasing an imaginary rabbit lure

with meat surprise inside.

Temporary distractions:

because I can

because I shouldn’t

because I must.

The Nietzschean disarray

refuses to be what it isn't:

byproducts of chasing (emotionally unavailable) men (who won’t chase me),

rolling arbitrarily as a marble

from one moment of satisfaction

to the next.

OR—it’s evidence that I basically live in my car

avoiding stability.

I’m just

doing

what I’ve

always

done.

Written 05 Aug 2013

Oblivion: The Only Other Option

In itself

it was enough

to keep me going

for now

in this life

that never seems

like it's enough

in itself:

gentle pat

on my literary back,

cup of coffee

jolts awake lethargic mind,

smile from a man

that contained no lust,

book in the mail

to start and finish tonight,

photo of mischevious feline

cute ears as angry eyebrows,

graceful energy

of an old woman

whirling courageously toward death.

In itself

it was enough

to keep me going

on, again

in this life

that isn't enough

in itself:

remember it's an impermanent circus.

know that everyone is wrong

because we can never know who's right.

feel fearless and cynical about

the idea of death.

and, mostly, always stay aware

that although this life

doesn't seem enough

in itself,

it may be the only chance

to exist, ever.

and the only other option

could be

oblivion.

Chemolithoautotrophs

Physicochemical occurrences
indicate spiritual phenomena
like convexity does concavity.

I thought if I understood chemistry
then I'd understand God.

The chemistry, ecology
of light-choked caves,
dark places,
helps understand
dark places I frequent.

Chemo- not a cure for my cancer
in 30 more years,
chemical.

Living on this litho-
rock, revolving in Nothingness around hot gas.

Auto-
(not our cars, fuck our cars)
oneself.

Troph-, like our feeding troughs
also feeding on us (without our cars & guns),
nutritive.

Chemolithoautotrophs
are just so damn cool.
Some only live in sulfuric-acid caves
formed by God’s sulfidic rage.
They eat up the stuff
no one else wants
in toxic rock heaps
inorganic elements & pollution
that we dump into rivers or
that exists geologically.

Feed me your orphan debris,
your darkness
or I'll discover some
that was already here.

Nothingness: A Fairytale, Part II

Part I is here.

Photos of a fairytale princess

in an exposed position strewn in

a trashed trailer, shot from a

5-finger discounted, one-time use

camera with batteries cracked so

acid leaks out its fogged shutter,

encasement’s smashed, camera’s FUBAR

upon a human excrement-stained,

springs-broken, sheetless mattress

directly on carpet that's embedded

with bed bug blood, condoms

inside-out & hand-rolled cigarette ashes &

dead flies whose sisters

swarm impatiently, desperately

to hone in on a nice maggot-laying

pool & feed on the skin & muscle

tissue of the disposable Beauty’s corporal

costume, hot pink polyester tulle

layered on lavender & burnt umber

expired bruises, either 13 or 30 days old.

She’s neither 13 nor 30 years old.

In her left hand, a hot-pink sparkly scepter

topped with heart-shaped Minnie Mouse.

In her right hand…

yep, you guessed it.

Allegory of the Attic

Remember How rewritten

Inside me, you started to clean

squirrels’ nests and spider webs

with your broom of persistence,

compassionate solvents, and agape.

You faced the challenge like a hero.

I was worth it to you, despite the pain

projected onto you, which you captured

and spun like a stoic into strong silk.

It couldn’t destabilize your solid beams,

a dusty attic transformed to golden hues.

Passionately, you have challenged me to

descend the stairs to the main floor

for hiding from light is unnecessary.

With sun stinging my eyes,

I’m battling to transcend these, my own, lies.

The heat exhausts us all,

vaporizes our hope, sun-blinded fear

in our minds, hearts, actions.

I am shaded, always,

by a single memory.