Sun Snaked

the two boys
laid the garter snake
on the sun dried wood
stretched long
to measure

the one boy
the opened jack knife
the gray blade
the cutting through
the bloody head

I remember
on my back, my skin
the warmth above and below
the fading away
the one-ness

the two boys
the one boy
the fading away
the memory
the warmth of it all

to be able to go back
to get it back
that glimpse
that moment
the all, that was all

the kundalini snake

  • the boy's voice was young but his intonation older: this is blood. this is blood. this is blood.
  • the old man with a drink in his hand followed:
  • the boy: this is all blood here.
  • old man: where did it happen?
  • the boy: this is blood. this is blood. I feel like I'm tracking an animal.
  • the old man: I've got to get back.
  • the boy: this is blood over here.

And then there is reading. Awkward grammar aside, a greater drug there never will be. Imagine if seeing the color green were considered the best way to understand the natural world. I need to get to the bank and make that deposit. It doesn’t have to be green. It could be brown. The point is that one could simply step outside and be absorbed by a hundred variations, a thousand occurrences, each containing a piece of the puzzle, each wanting to be noticed, to convey it’s inherent meaning to the viewer. Imagine an internet of green. How would one ever get anything done? How does one?

Why do we write so much about writing? Is any other discipline so self-referential? In the beginning was the word and the word was “solipsism.” Do painters ever feel so alone with themselves that they can only paint their guts? Does a potter shape his mud with one hand on his cock? I need to go to iKea and get two more bookshelves. What is the sculptural equivalent of “woe is me?” There’s Woody Allen, of course, but isn’t a filmmaker just a writer?

The pleasure of a cup of coffee doesn’t help or last. If I drank it for the caffeine I suppose it would but I do not seek the buzz. Drinking coffee is a somatic comfort, something to ease the transition from walking sleep to functionally awake. I need to oil all the door hinges. I drink coffee for the taste, the earthy bitterness mellowed by the soft, sweet foam that together make it cappuccino. My coffee is an unreliable companion who promises succor but delivers a fleeting and insubstantial half-hug before disappearing, leaving me to face the computer screen alone.

There are times when writing flows but mostly not. Often, sitting down to write feels like a sacrifice of time that could be spent on productive things. I need to clean the coffee machine. I can write without effort if I stick to free associative introspection but attempts at ‘creativity’ can be like trying to shit out a bowling ball. Speculation comes naturally but anything resembling a plan or an approach to a communicative truth stops the flow.