Bibble pats himself on the back.

[ras has guest today] 

sent 24:02:20

Bibble: You always were a romantic despite a penchant for sentimental existentialism.  How did they put it?  Yes:  "Elegantly Juxtaposed." 

And believable.  Inspirational.  Magic.  That's what they said.  You hated it, didn't you?  But you were raised to love it, and either way youa knew it well.  It was a part of you.  And because of, or like them, I fell for the ol' wizard up the sleeve like an ace down a rabbit hole.  So to speak.

I wanted to know why your stark desolation was always so charmingly described.  Why Emptiness was so well-spoken.  Can you really blame me for responding this way upon discovering the answers?  At the beginning, you had called me braver than the rest.

All this reminiscing is not in my nature.  My concerns lie mostly in the present, and Santa brings them nightly down my chimney.  So to answer your original question:  Yes, every day is like Christmas.

Dearest Bibble.

Sent 03:00:25

ras: I will tell my children that I survived by breaking off my left foot. I survived by drinking the blood. I survived by rationing out the remains minutely. I survived by staying conscious--plucking out follicles starting at the base of my neck and making a careful circle. I survived by pressing my knuckles against my eye lids until the spots became manifest and benevolent.

I will tell them I created bright, round angels--shy, skirting to my peripheral whenever I was thirsty.

I will say that it was cold and I survived by nestling against your loneliness. They will ask 'Where did he come from?' and I'll say 'Hopefully the cloud, but maybe from behind my eyes.'

[Let me be the hero in this. Write me like I'm Joan of Arc.]

Two Poems.

The Legendary got two poems by me.

and check out the other work from Issue 25.

I been thinking in all caps.

I BEEN CEDING CONTROL TO FEAR
I BEEN SHAKING MY THIGHS
I BEEN PISSING MYSELF ON THE LIVING ROOM COUCH
I BEEN EMBRACING MEMORY
I BEEN SCREAMING
I BEEN SCREAMING LOUDLY WHERE AM I AND WHOSE LEGS ARE THESE AND WHOS   INSIDE MY MOUTH RIGHT NOW

I BEEN MEETING THE BANSHEE

I BEEN LOOKING FOR CLUES

I BEEN CLUTCHING THE TOP CORNERS OF THE BED, SPITTING BLOOD ON THE PILLOW CASE, SAYING this is your bedroom and this the life you made this is the present this is all you really have this is hell this is 

I BEEN REMEMBERING THE GENITALS OF EACH OF MY FAMILY MEMBERS 

I BEEN 'RUBBING ONE RAW'
I BEEN ORGANIZING MY TRIGGERS ALPHABETICALLY
I BEEN STARTING WITH THE CITY OF  BELLFLOWER, CALIFORNIA
I BEEN REFUSING TO END.

I BEEN FINDING CREATIVE WAYS TO ADMIT DEFEAT.

After the Attempt

THE WORLD'S FIRST RECORDED DREAMS    OF A COMATOSE MAN WERE PROMPTLY TELEVISED AND SYNDICATED. IT WAS THE THIRD MOST POPULAR SHOW OF THE YEAR. CRITICS PANNED ITS MOROSE SELF-UNAWARENESS—THE VERY PREMISE—AS WELL AS THE EMBARASSINGLY FREUDIAN IMAGERY. OTHERS SAID 'THAT IS HARDLY FAIR. YOU MUST SUSPEND CONTEXT. THIS IS TELEVISION, NOT LITERATURE. ALSO, HE    WAS LAB TECHNICIAN, NOT A POET.'

what a bless'd sweat rag.

From the Grave to the Sky

I would pray with my hands pressed between my thighs. I would block out the pastor’s words and speak to the empty space behind my eyes. I would search for a hand in the dark. I would roam across the inside of my skull, groping. I would keep my eyes closed during the praise skit trying to ignore the homophobic overtones and I would ask God questions. I would sit with the silence and feel humbled and punished. I would say thank you. I would say I do not deserve your answer or your love. I would feel my heart swell and seep with humility and penance. I would go up to the altar and rest my knees on the pillowed benches. I’d wait for their hands and try not to run. Penance. I would feel the word gauntlet, like these tongues are those of imps and iniquities pulling me to oblivion [not to hell, but the unanswerable].  I would try not to run. I would look around and note bodies splayed out—Sunday dress—diabetic stockings—lace front wig. Tears in all our eyes while they touch our foreheads with oil. Pastor would say the doors of the church are open and it’s like an escape route. And if that would be a hint of hell, this would be a beam of light. The doors of the church are open and I would be small and clean from now until tonight.

[From 'Come Join the Jubilee']