superfluous sincerity

My heart drowns in its own superfluous sincerity.

Touching the wild: meditating in the moss-bottomed shoes of Joe Hutto

I.
On the half-giraffe neck,
in the place where the trachea
blooms tumbling and whistles are born,
I am soft instead of strangling;
smoothing out the truffle-brown
ruffles rouge-waved by the Aprilian
air; the whoosh whorls that ride
the loopedy loop roller coaster
through your black pavement
-after- rain nostrils.

Some verdant gleam
in your soul windows hums
out the syllables of spring
in a way that is more legible
than the calendar’s stale font.

On the cotton-candy carpet
betwixt your upraised cicatrices,
I wipe away the oozing guilt
that pours from pores
who know it is just about
hunting season in this hood.

Domestication is braided
up into the hard plateaus
of knuckles that have curled
curdling into cotton balls
instead of punching cannon fodder.
Legs fold to level my eyes
with the horizon line
that begins at the fringe
of your layered lashes.

II.
My yearning to touch
has ballooned up
and out of body
and is instead orbiting
dizzily around you
and your silken ilk.

Palm-like ears cupping
the wind and taking its hand;
haptic hooves weave hopscotch
trails in the dirt’s brown back
until you are close enough
for me to count the spots
that speckle your spine’s
skin-wings, stretched feathery
thin over hard bones of cage;
I want to drum my finger pads
across your xylophone ribs;
I bet they’re saturated
with rainbow inside.

Approximately in the place
a poncho would perch like
a thickened band-aid on your
carved out vertebrae,
there are vanilla sprinkles.

Those white specks mock
the spring scenery, tricking
any gullible irises into
believing there is snow
still clinging cautiously
on the newborn fur;
confusing the warmth
of womb that is weaved
over the infant earth with
spring’s sewing sinews
and the wilting frostbitten
walls of winter’s crumbling.

But there is no chill
to chastise my cells
when my hand makes
a tiptoe landing between
the satellites of your
endearingly oversized ears.

Can you hear my cleat-toed
temperature climbing the metallic
rungs of thermometer’s ladder
notches as the broth of your heat
is blended with my own?

III.
Raggedy Anne is the name
I dub thee with, using the
sanctified scepter of shapes
suddenly sharing seams.

There she is, my girl,
thick tongue salivating
thick hunger for the earth’s
newly sprouted mane.

I spin grass around my fingers
like tomato red noodles
on the prong of a fork
wearing silver,
and rip with one quick
skyward tug.
Only I’m wearing
fibrils of your fur,
all at once mahogany
and milk colored.

I want to brush out
all the angry vibrations
wrangled in your whiskers.

Mouth makes the gesture
of gratefulness as you grind
down the nutrients, the fructose,
and glide them into the empty
places of your appetite.

In the negative 30 degree winter,
positive memories of touching the
wild I feel rippling along
your backbone
warm my insides more effectively
than my aluminum space heater.

IV.
But there are no birthday cakes
in the temperate forest jungle
behind the untailored tree line;
my friends are edited
into corpses by the apathy
of erosion that comes
when the cycle that mother
nature rides across the rotting
repeatedly leaves deep-dug
claw marks in the ground’s
gap-mouthed visage.

The mountain’s valleys
replace the basins that
are normally meant
for cupping tears
that babies are baptized in.

Mom stopped sending
Kleenex care packages
when she heard I named
a fawn after her because
the creamsicle tint
of its fur triggered sunrising
images of her hair
hiking over the hillsides
of her h-hump shoulders.
She said I should have said
the deer reminded me of her;
not the other way around.

Deadman’s Gulch
is the place
I hammered up my home
to be close to them;
the dearest ones.

My mule deer friends
trust me unwaveringly,
linearly from the moment
they emerge from their mothers
to the moment they are stolen
away from this life.

Unlike humans,
who always reserve room,
in even the tightest plaited closeness,
for doubt; debilitating doubt.
Nature doesn’t whip
me with the boomerang of questions
marks that are towing
inquiries hauntingly unanswerable.

V.
But am I grave digging
with the spade-sharp
shovels of naivety?
The bobcats unabashedly
boast the pearly collection
of triangle incisors
that they store in the
lamination of spittle
in their grinning mouths.

I am prey as much as
my friends are;
and I can’t possibly pray
enough to save all of us.

VI.
The waltzing hexagons of orange
vests against all the tranquil green
spell out “CAUTION”
to these binocularing eyes.

My allegiance is as torn
as the withered tendons
in the old man’s arms
when they struggle to pull
my good friend Babe
by the now-still antlers
that pulse red with
ache suddenly elicited
and then silenced.

With wind chimes of sadness
dangling from every chandelier
cell like anchors meant to hold
a thousand doggy-paddling Titanics,
I begrudgingly assist the hunter
in lifting the body of my brother
into the fear stricken
mouth of the horrified Hummer.

My heart holds more hurt
than this whole mountain
range, in all of its magnificent
surface area, could wear in blood.

The hot crimson screaming
out against the vibrant green
of the field holds my eyes prison
as more of the meat
in my once crystalline imago
of the good of human beings
is stripped away, flayed out,
and shish-kabobed on my
fiercely piercing pain.

VII.
I can’t apologize enough to
make the alarm drain
out of Raggedy Anne’s
fire engine eyes, sirening.
I can’t hold Blossom
close enough to me
before she wants to pace again,
making crop circles
in her unarticulated ouch.

Now I know why
the Romanticists always
returned to the city
after their restorative walks;
nature, in all her beauty
and all her sublimity,
is more than a man
can manage, even
in the spirit of marriage
or the solemnity of martyrdom.

“and I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.”

—   Emily Dickinson, Letters of Emily Dickinson, edited by Mabel Loomis Todd  (via childoflust)

(Source: litverve, via problem-with-average)


Untitled 1, Garden - by Mike Perry 

professorzachary:

petition to turn “day of silence” into “day of screaming”

just talk about gay things all day

point out oppression whenever you see it

scream at homophobes until your throat goes raw

get loud

get aggressive

refuse to be silenced

make them fuckin listen to you

(Source: childofperdition, via asweregrowingolder)

“My favourite thing was a bunch of people made a giant sign that said “How am I going to be an octopus about this?” and held it up during Pompeii at all the right times and it distracted me enough to sing “octopus” instead by accident.”

—   Dan Smith [x] (via bastillewtf)

(Source: dansmithsconverse, via kshark)

asexual-not-a-sexual:

I was looking at military valor medals, and couldn’t help but think how cool they were. So I decided to make a set of medals to identify the various orientations. (I could make a remark about how each person, regardless of orientation, has their own “valor,” but I’ll refrain from being that corny.)

Just a side note: If you think labels and classifications are stupid, unimportant, or silly, that’s your business. However it’s important to respect those who still choose to classify themselves. Likewise, it’s important to respect those who choose not to classify. It’s all good, whatever you choose to do. Yeah~ 

(Actual size is 20x24”, and larger files can be sent for print and educational purposes [for free]. Contact me for more info.)

(via asweregrowingolder)

mamavalkyrie:

shakerattleandcrescentrolls:

devious-devil:

omnimodus:

apparently the key to happiness is to have a long and shitty winter
and if you can’t have that, surround yourself with deadly wildlife

or maybe these countries have free or reasonably priced health care, good education and costs nothing or very little, marriage equality(not all do however on the list but they at least aren’t extremely homophobic either), decent minimum wages, stable economies, low crime rates and so forth and also deadly wildlife because we protect our environment



Shots fired

mamavalkyrie:

shakerattleandcrescentrolls:

devious-devil:

omnimodus:

apparently the key to happiness is to have a long and shitty winter

and if you can’t have that, surround yourself with deadly wildlife

or maybe these countries have free or reasonably priced health care, good education and costs nothing or very little, marriage equality(not all do however on the list but they at least aren’t extremely homophobic either), decent minimum wages, stable economies, low crime rates and so forth and also deadly wildlife because we protect our environment

Shots fired

(via asweregrowingolder)

Exhale

milkshakesandheartaches:

I am a passionate person almost to a fault.  I get absorbed by people, my surroundings, and my own self.  If I do not remember to exhale, I could easily get consumed by everything.  Writing is my exhalation.  Without it, I would suffocate.  What gives you life?  What can’t you imagine not doing or you would do for free?  Whatever answers you come up with, I hope you are spending a good portion of the day engaged in same.  Otherwise, what is the point?  Living for others or wasting the few precious moments we have in our lifetime in what does not fill us is no way to live.  I would rather be fertilizing the ground.

Thus, sit down, close your eyes, and dream. Then open them wide and soar toward your purpose. Don’t forget to exhale.

rawrkelsorawr:

Cutest skirt alert. (Picture does not do it justice.)

rawrkelsorawr:

Cutest skirt alert. (Picture does not do it justice.)