diary 10

[ w/ bright green large format dot grid & black ink two ways ]

a ritual that involves tying can turn so secret it never really tells you
if it turns out to be no ritual at all. maybe the whole of your mouth on a rainy day corpse
is what the ritual turns on, how it turns in on you, turns dripping, molding somewhere
against you, a spell who drags you further into the basement. did those photos of you
lash you to others? did you go into the burn jar, too? when you invest
and others move away, you drag. you scrape your affection into any calling object.
you church so others can stay home. you are righteous and objects do not affect you.
who put these bounds here?
how do we fade into them?
what is our timeline?
what is timing us?
is the train late?
or too early?
helllllllo??

//

pause.
quiet you.
and/or pulse.
open window.
too many buttons.
too many edges on this.
too many tags to tear out.
i hold each object in my hand before placing it on the shelf as though anything or
everything can or will speak to me. i haven’t been feeling so well ha ha ha ha ha.
with the tip of my finger i brush specks of dry skin out of my eyelashes
and right into my eyes. reduce me, reuse me. roll me in the barrel down the stairs,
haven’t you heard the basement’s finished? oh oh haven’t you wanted to be haunted
in a fresh coat of paint? walls so fresh you can eat off ’em. walls so bright it’s alright you
don’t know much. the dark is still the dark as soon as you’re in it