Sunday, April 14, 2019

Spontaneous Combustion of Touch

So it's true, I want to write about those four friends
The four friends I now send a spontaneous poem to every Saturday night,
looking for reflection to my queer landscaped spurts of words
(Words that are just the swathed edges of a coherent sensation)
It all comes back to
Words infinitely reactivated by defiant hearts
Yearning hearts

I sit and want to write, configurations of air and matter radiate on my sides as my thought-streams try to coincide through them and reach me directly. All is strewn out upon layers of colors and hues
In shapes of time and space ago
Things touch
Like my hands to my laptop's keyboard
Like a breath of air to my lungs to my stomach, in and out
Like my crossed legs touch the floor
My sock-covered feet rest beneath me
Things touch each other
I want more connection
I want touch to be the epitome of understanding.
I want my thoughts to be clear like the crease of a sheet and my brainwaves as explicit as a stream of water.
I want more touch. I want the fusion of matter and air to touch a linear comprehension of time, to touch a lucid understanding of what is, to touch a plateaued spur toward language, to touch language, to find the words through the ocean of possibility.
I want touch to be the epitome: When I touch experience, I want to touch time, when I touch passion, I want to touch creativity, when I touch air, I want to touch clarity.
When I touch a field of thought, I want to touch a story.
I want the story in my head to touch a nerve
That's longer and stronger than two sentences
That lasts for a whole book
That has in it the kind of quirky beginnings, intricate but simple middles, and solemn, spiky, friendly, awesome, inspiring ends. I swear I can see it in my mind.
I want touch.
I want to touch people
Embrace people,
Be embraced
Not live in a solitary body or soul
Be with others,
Be me in others,
Be others in me.
Be a living story, oh, so unique, so fascinating, but also so mundane and so simple!
Let passion run loose. No. Tame it. Tame is to be running loose and arriving somewhere where it can then sprawl itself out onto paper and morph into a book.

And then be a book,
And then sigh.

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