the missed spaces, the missed places, the missed times, the missed rhymes, the missed persons I could have been or will be, the fear that restricts me, the choices that elate me, the food that prolongs, the life that kills and opens and winds up and scares and tears and screws, inspires and heightens and pitches and rolls and drowns and crowns and takes hold of and molds and breaks and pours into and empties and burns.

and here we steal away together

recorded 19.2.18

States of self. A constant flux. I open my eyes and my focus is transported outside of my skin. I am reminded I was, have been, and am in a sea of bodies. I perceive various currents around me. Fast whipping muscles and ungulations. And I. All fabric has fallen below my torso, has seemingly caught up to the chain which I have placed on my hips. This weight hangs from bones and pulls on skin, and skin is pulled downwards yet I lift it up, turn it on its side. I meditate on the blood which is gathering its waters, which is preparing to leave my body, which has seemingly caught up to the chain. And my hands take part in a mime-like duet with my abdominal, a west-east-north-south-cross hatching. My hands smile at my hips before they depart, leaving them to continue their sphere drawings, and my hands float up the river of muscle and rest on two buoyancies. My breast sway heavy and away from the rib cage. They are the furthest bits of flesh from any bits bone. I hold them, bring them in closer, momentarily take their weight. The fat and water and nerves that know pleasure and pain slosh against fingers and palms and my breasts are grateful and I open my eyes. I am reminded I was, have been and am amidst a sea of bodies. A warrior smiles with strength and their painted face crinkles momentarily. I spot blue and pink and gold specks in the proximity and I am grateful for the tribe who is this sea.

recorded 26.2.18

recorded 13.2.18