November 5 2020
i’ve slept in longer, cant sleep the night. Can’t find the willpower to not rest when i need. Can’t handle these cantos. My dreams are fancy and good except one dream where there’s a rat in a fridge and my hand reaches through objects and then I’m demoralized by a church i want to help serve, K—— calls me L—- and that freaks me out. I wake up flurry, throwing my eyes around the room. I grab my book to write.
I’m only Bjorn. Bjorn is belonged to in God. God is only love, perfecter of our faith, reason apart this world’s reason altogether to be grace, mercy, sweet as can be in me. I sit up on my bed, sip water, munch on a few almonds and i write my way out of poor headspace.
In oblivion of my world i’m lacquered in love, spilling my truth like water to a flower, sun bathe a flower, overflown i’m above the below feeling, nothing can bring me down. My eye is on the love of God. The flowers tall on my water and this is well.
Springing up i say i’ll be forever to the moment. Gotta clean up some mentals: if she’s not gonna be love with me i’ll keep up the flowers, least they’re the colors i’ll portray, put their petals on display.
I’d been walking up on over to the purple blossoms when two moths connected flew through my peripheral all ephemeral fast, sloping my sight to see one alive moth attached in some stupid bond to a dead moth. I watched the moth straggle, try to fly and be pulled back down. I said i’ll be right back.
At the purple blossoms i remembered these are two distinct flower bushels, one being the purple blossom potato plant and the other a sort of oleander. I feathered my smooth oil paint and key fingers to run the purple silk smooth through spaces between my fingers. I remembered her hair. A stick will work i thought.
Back with the moth alive and death moth still attached, i used nature’s stick to force their cut, to dismember them apart into two again. They both went still, i returned hours later after keyboard playing, praying, yoga and a shower to see them both dead, the moths. I buried then together.
Gotta keep my composure, keep myself together and free in God is all. Today is all we are, well all i’ve got. I speak a perfervid prefix to people but really i gotta talk to myself, gotta be lovely.
See me oh mind in the mirror of the page, writing gotta be lovely to me, call me still moving river, Ruach, Spirit O’ God breath breathing by me oh my the body of me.
I read, flip on through quiet breakfast of two scrambled eggs, almonds lightly salted and quite my luxury with black chia seeds and parsley, thyme, basil, cooked up hot in a black cast iron skillet on not a gas stove. I read through the truth, Blue Hour. Blue Hour tells the stories of my bluer hours. The space between time. And time again in uncertain times of 2020 in pandemic isolation, riots, instigated in widespread fear diseased further by COVID-19, now to mention present politic in election, as the blue keeps going on with that feeling. I slept the days, kept up the moon and stars. I used my imagination. Using my imagination i make it. On occasion i forget my purpose, why or even to be aware of life;
You know there’s quite the difference between being alive and really living your life. Love is the door. My keys unlock endless abundance in God’s loving persuasion in provision. I am water to a flower. I’m feeling gold in my red, sovereign joys.
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Martha spoke out through the laurel leaves of green a word or two on distipulation of a nation after election and i said hol’ up – how am i gonna get writing my life like fiction diction dictates to nonfiction attribution of dream mneumonics. Ah, fuck i got words ink inclined i don’t even know. I am no stipulation, i am gesticulation of a nation. Stories altogether nonsensical and still all through this i’m calmed down to a distillate of loving expressions my soul in truth entirety, a book of love named and written in a week, to week as though you’d heard seconds tick tock, spinning clock of our days coming together again, my love, martha, hold my hand.
i laugh, i don’t know any martha. I’m avoiding what i’m upset about with fictional characters, put into my writing as though and isn’t writing my life? Anyway i’ll tell you whats really upset me. Gabriella-Elise’s got me confused in the head. Had this always been only her and me as it is and was to me i’m fucked up my written lines why i’ve got it going the most, posting day to day essays on her soul and my soul like we were dismembered moths.
I remember feeling up the piano keys, hearing her speak again on my attractions to her and other women. I think beauty is so fine and i can’t turn these eyes off, my voice is gotta speak, you hear? Made it this far so i sip a coffee, listen to how mac miller’s been playing in the background and i look out the window, one of the two petunias in my garden is dead. A bushel of red flowers is looking fine, they’re oriental, have leaves like open hands i hold. I love, you know. I’m in matisse’s dance, gabi’s drawn nudes, just contemplating nude in the shower how this hot waters and steams supposed to make me all clean and still feeling my heart dismembered, confidently confused, i’m still a still water ocean of abundance for love. I’m swimming in presence of God.
i hadn’t really heard the quiet for quite the while.