The Breakage

I sit here in the time of breakage. It's called a breakup because it's broken. All you knew before is wonderfully, profoundly, sweetly broken. It's not going to revert back. You have punished the evildoers under your sword, you refuse to take prisoners and there are going to be more dead bodies. You are not on a fucking crusade for yourself. You are on a crusade for the womb within, that light of consciousness of others that wraps around our shoulders more and more as womanhood ripens on into the summer of things we never expected and into bodily metamorphoses they never warned us about. You are going to cry. You are going to laugh. You are going to sweat it out, bleed it out. There will be days when you can't contain it all. There will be brilliant lights and strikings to the ground and worldviews razed, over and over again. Oh love, these are the end times. You will have creative miscarriages. You will hemorrhage money. You will lose control of the car. You will get to the end of the tightrope. You will fall off the edge of the fucking rollercoaster. But all in all, at the end of the day, you will laugh. You will know how to laugh at it.

Sounds
distorted and tinny
Flanged out now
Like raining spears of
airwaves you once recognized
music is the woman
music is the man
the pulse is consciousness
I play the drums.


All is resurrected, like the myth they stole from the earth.

You are no better than desert gunner's gun.
Tornado up and out
Love.
Shout.