Secret Society

I walked home last night in the rain, after a day of being wholly unaware and untold of when i was allowed to leave work. I was just happy to leave so I walked home in the grinding rain, just one foot after the other, clothed in a serene sense of a continuing in the journey with the closing in of impending death... the lightning flashes getting closer and closer, the light illuminating more and more of my peripheral surrounding as I walk, soaked to my skin, no umbrella, alone down this wide street littered with construction equipment and upturned gravel. I kept scanning back and forth, after every white light flash and low rumble, looking to see just how close to the tallest object I was around me. I kept rerunning in my mind everything I had learned about about lightening safety in elementary school. I figured the possibility certainly was there. that I could get struck by lightning on the road. all the ground we, wide pavement road. the conditions seemed right. would have been a pretty solid way to die
                                                        a
                                                          n                                                                                                                                                                     y                                                                                                                                                                    w
                                                                   a                                                                                                                                                                   y

                  let's start a secret society.                                             just you and me and all the people we love
                                         let's make art just for us
                                                                                                     lets take long car rides and write songs places and not release them or plan for nothing but lets make a thing or two together.


            we'll have names on names inside of names. we'll think of something

                                                              we'll have handshakes and call signs. we'll have safe houses and mailing lists. we'll live in as a robust and open hearted way imaginable. we'll work jobs and save money and know we have each others backs. there will always be floors to sleep on. couches to surf. I want to see all of you out on the slab my beloved. we'll write a manifest. we'll have a guild.
                                                           lets buy cb radios. lets pool money so we can all buy cb radios.                                   i hope that shouting into a staticy either would bring response
                                                     

lets start a secret society

A transmission from The Butch Princess

Hello all, a transmission, an echo in the canyon of me from Cora the Butch Princess of the sensitive misanthrope kingdom.

Rhymes are an illusion, like a lot of things. I shape words in my mouth and make them fit together. My mouth is a kiln. In my mouth I forge vessels for holding, dispensing. my heart is a farm for joy, sometimes. I birth happiness twins and name then yesterday and tomorrow.

other days i dream of robbing liquor stores and killing all clerks behind counters or turning my eyes from anyone who tenderly kisses my heart, who would want to eat such a poisonous apple. I am certainly sick for sure. I can't know what unsick days feel like. I know the farm days. I know what the growing times feel like. and the fallow times, the wild fire season is always and it comes quick after a few dry weeks of happiness. of beautiful phone calls with a beautiful girl whose throat wishes me well with its laughter.

                                 what even is a life
            i don't                                   think                  i can tell you . . .  . . . . . .
                           let's start some bands please
i would like to forget why i love firing squads so much and how much space that takes up. y'all must tend to the girl on the tightrope. she could fall and not even know why. i don't want to be tended over, or to know that i could or should or might'n't be tended over. language is an illusion. suck on that post modernists.

tell me that this was constructed
                                                          LIKE this DIDN'T Just CRAWL OUT OF MY BELLY
LIKE THIS WASN'T HERE WHEN MY MOMMA COULD GO to the store and buy liquor for her mom. we all have moms probably. and they had moms and i think we should know that
                                                   what is life i am trying to figure that out. what would it mean for me to have a good one, i think i need to know what love is first, or how to have a good one. the farm days remember. trying to kill myself in my ex girlfriends kitchen. i need to get a card that says that. i say it not infrequently. the sensitive misanthrope in her castle. pontificating for breakfast, hoping before my pants come on i will understand how the tides might take me to a promised land. and perhaps all this is                                 is waiting for me to relise gods arrows don't miss
                                                                                                                  or another morsel of wisdom.
                   



I have gorged on the profundity of wizards and conjurers and the mages of every corner searching for a constancy  of inconstancy. just sticking my nose in the trough.



           SO.     whats life?   ?   ?   ?  ? ?????  i'm still not sure if this isn't a disjointed sensory trip that just ends one day. which frankly sounds pretty lovely. though i am so enamored of the idea of a moral truth i can't see a world devoid of morality. righteousness lives somewhere just not in you or me or anyone else. 

               I haven't moved anything . managed by some chance to posses the love of some amazing people, for the care of others to fall on me in ways that were not understood. is that my  life. the summation of too much inertia and a lack of understanding ? i am the demon princess of the misanthropes. a thief of thieves. a stealer who letsyou know it has been stolen, who draws a map of the crime scene (PEACE TO THE RUBY YATCH AND ALL THE WRITERS WHO PUT TRUTH IN TRANSMITTABLE FORM). life. might just be this and i hope to kiss someones feet for the pleasure. i don't hate life. the droughts live in me not her. no more punctuation
there isn't punctuation in my mind no not even in my kingdom as a i sit on my throne and transmit this to you

         my beloved
                                  i have probably hated you at some point. saw, in some chamber in my mind, how i might brutally kill you. life has no punctuation. mine at least. its just blurred feelings of grace and utter terror fucking one another for days on end. peace beloved. i hope god blesses you and the house you build. i want  that
                               blessings and a house to build
                                                                                      lets start some bands. lets start a secret society and manifest things. i want to make anything with all of you. but not in words anymore i want to make things in life. in this space. i want unrestrained desire to meet unfettered actions. burn cars. fuck the police. fuck the internet too. i'm not gonna be hogtied by a devious mediocraty or maybe i should submit. i should learn where east is. i miss my headscarf some days. blessings.
        i hope the hate is an illusion like the rhymes, that i can shape it in my mouth. my mouth is a kiln. i forge vessels.