The Endangered Body (part 1)

We do not accept the human body

Nor do we allow ourselves to fully realize the real possibility of perfecting it.

Our holiness and grace do not shine through…

We try to perfect it…but the body is merely an idea – and instrumental idea

And ideal of mastery, power, and manipulation.

I sometimes feel like a ball of spontaneous libidinal senses.

What IS this sensuous body?

What is this bisexual Buddha belly?

Is there any substance in all this philosophizing?

I’m trying to shine through…

Heaving massive attacks…

Gagging on regrets…

Standing by your feet,

mine ache with vigor.

We can’t be here but another day until we wash with the waging of another civil war–let’s eat another breakfast under the porch like before. Regret me not.

Until it flies out you can be right there.

Read what I said: it will ingest you whole. Arise–melt and pop like sizzled bacon, all charred under your fingertips.

From outside stars beckon the breath from the leaves. Shuddering around we can find our momentum again , we can merge. The box unfolds as we do, all the papers flying about our naked forms silhouetted on the sheets.

One street will divide and pour forth the depths. Entry. Do not enter. Out of body experience.

When you blink, everything is destroyed to emerge once more when you open them; we implode. Smoldering in the dark. Ants crawl below, inside, where our thoughts come from. Seething power and mere morsels. Tingled together.

Drop the act.

When were you here last? I forgot my books.

Kingdom come.

Wherever do I shine tomorrow?

After all the evenings of sitting in place I can swing open wide and accept the plan.

Inward we shrink and we can swim as one–where the sound reverberates to a hum.  The shrieking ends shortly before you do, although it can seem like an eternity.

I pulse alongside you, we divide and obscure and circle the vent.  When you give into the sensation and allow all to combine, your eyes can relax and lose focus.  Refocus.

Simplify the complacencies to enrich the exaltation.  Shouldn’t we be marking the trail?

Behind is not there when you turn to look.  It can’t been seen from the future.

Stretch to the extremity.  Decide for yourself.

It isn’t the worst thing that could happen.

Yesterday is only what you make it and it can’t be more than you.

Where did you go, and how can I?

Gray Area(s)

October 21st & 22nd – Ten Tiny Dances at Feverhead, 7:30P & 9P

Amanda Platt surveys the seasons of her life; these gray areas tangent between responsibility, fear, make-up, maturation, doubt, abandon, innocence, reverence, poise and an umbrella.

 

9.1.11

Plotting my escape — we should all swing together.  Why can it not be said?

He always flew just right.  It makes one think — how can you dive out from the dust and never question your direction?  We don’t think twice — often not in the first place.  It also goes where we are headed

The world can tilt and it can be a balloon, ever hissing out some unseen crack.  Fissures sparkle from within, and you can see the seeping grass as it weeps.  I know we will eventually cry too — whistling at the seams like they all do.  Into the fold it will creep, and with it goes the lot of us.

Can you taste the smell of the sight of it?  Bear that much — ver to the right and stay upon me.  If it can sneak away, you will find why it yearned to go in the first place.

I can’t feel my ears now.

Around the room the truth winds up the table legs and curtains, envolping the situation we have created for the morning.  The sunlight wiggles free and opens your arms from behind your back.

Let go of the urge to laugh.

You will remember why when you stop trying.  The door will still be there when you open your eyes.  And all the words you couldn’t be.

When swimming in soup…

it is customary to wind thru the reeds but only til the screen falls.  From there we can wade with your memory of that season.

Where can it end, why must we?  Grind and convulse with untold or un-thought or completely undone creatures from your past.  We will arrive when it is time.  The cat is the wilderness and you can only see two.

When you think about it, we do really only live physically.

Screaming and writhing into the corner — there it is.  Waken to the words of my touch.  It will go away when you envision its course.

It can’t believe in you because you only exist in my dream.  Waken to the blistering of your skin — shining/ shouting/ slapping away at the carpet and you can’t hear what they’re saying but you know they never knew.

We can now.

Come with me.  Follow the sound of the machines — drive off a cliff.  Only then will you recognize yourself.

You’ll recognize me and we’ll return….vibrate and dissolve.

Independents Day Festival

“Live like this.”

Cool kids… Pop stars say, “Live like this.”

As if fear were irrelevant… and hearts made of stone.

No, we are not precious.  Or beautiful in the eyes of others.  We pull pieces of flesh from off our bones and hold the fist-fulls of gore under each others’ noses.

“Here I am.”

We can’t stop defragmenting… we want to feel whole yet tear ourselves apart.

You can’t hustle the sharp ones, but others are easily manipulated and manipulate-able.

There is no nobility in being played.

Hopelessly hoping..

to find Clint Eastwood just beyond this stop…  I’ve been told that he’s been there before.

A vision, a statue, a hero… someone to carry me away.

It wasn’t long ago that I grew my 3rd eye… an awareness that sees through bull shit walls.  Just like Dirty Harry had.  Yeah, like him… nobody fucked with Dirty Harry.

I feel dirty.  I feel like this isn’t real.

finest. future.

perversity at its finest.

heroes of the future, return to the ground. ease the plain. erase your mind and see what rings.

follow behind but only so far–as far as the blind can be.  empty the shelf find where it leads but tell it where its going.

it is.

what is, multitudes of men flying overhead. swinging a fist at the King. where can he be? if not here, there?

automatic rifle–dust dummies.  erase the frankness and delve amongst the fruit.  it waits.

i can’t stand here long–the view erases from sight–melting thru the floor and into the rest.  and so on.