I’m a swimming galaxy.
wipe the crust from your eyes
wake up, wake up!
God needs you.
“1/2017”
There is a peace in exposure
and a peace in silence.
And I still can’t discern where I fit completely.
“april 4, 2017, journal entry”
“nice bomb, but it didn’t really
blow anything up.”
-hell (nice bomb), Robin Jackelow
shut up girl
and
be a soldier
the note on my hand
read, the impermanence
of the metaphor
not lost on me,
but also never found.
“12/31/2016”
I want to hear about your battle
in the forest,
he says.
Well it was a dream I had,
darling, I remind him.
yes but i want to hear about it
and record it, he is keeping
pace with me which impresses
me though I don’t let
him know that.
fine, but i want to use a
fake name.
why?
to protect myself from the evil
eye.
he thinks i might be crazy
and i
enjoy this spectacle so i
say anything at all to him
without giving it a single
thought.
ok, what else?
he is perhaps, more earnest
than I expected.
any time i tell a lie
we have to start the story
over.
he laughs.
im serious.
there is a pause between
people that slices me
into tiny bits. it’s the gaze
of the pause I worry about.
I wish to crawl
inside them so they cannot see
me.
why don’t you just not lie?
that little lie about choice.
you have to record everything i say
from beginning to end and ill tell
you every single thing i remember
about the episode
and all the dreams
and every interaction
and every intuitive thought coming
true, every spell and every
man but every time i tell a lie
you have to wait for me
to start at the beginning
and retell everything.
I would find out years
later that he only wanted
to listen to me talk.
I was real slow with it,
not just my accent but
my deliberation,
and that sometimes
he didn’t record anything I said.
how will i know you are lying?
I will interrupt the game
and say ive been lying,
i hold my hands up for
effect, but
i wont tell you when and then
we will start over.
i will tell the new story as I see fit.
i do not tell him
that I don’t remember much
or think about it much at
all. I do not tell
him that none of this means
anything to me. whether
I tell the story or not has no
bearing on me. I just one day
sit down and let him
record me, wondering
what I will say.
wondering if I do say their
names.
wondering if I am
in love. wondering
if I ever tell anyone I love
them again.
Ok, he says.
I love him because he doesn’t
make me try.
My name is Lilian,
I begin.
And I once saw the death of
a man that I loved and terrified
asked if it could be me instead.
(I do not tell him this is the end)
“datura moon”
“so I say from the hole
the names and I begin:
- I never loved you.
2. I never loved you.
3. I think I loved you and might still.
4. I hope to love you.”
“and then what happened?”
he spits a little as he leans in
and because i am polite
I ignore him.
he’s kind of frenetic but
composed and I think
it’s a matter of being
too excited about the
story. he says it will
be anonymous.
I know better than to trust
any man or recording
but I have to be right
and show that I am right.
(2.)
I took a sip of water as he leaned in
and I felt the pressure of
electronics and promise
between us.
the documentation of
it all; a Saturn, weight,
a pressure to say the right thing.
not as in flattering,
but correct.
to prove I am truthful.
to prove my ethics.
“and then I reneged it and said
I have no hope in love
and I’ve
never loved anyone.
and then I stood there shaking
from the drop in temperature
for awhile finally adding:
and I never ever will.”
he laughed. he didn’t mean to,
it’s just I have a way of saying
things in a flat delivery
that denotes complete apathy
but it comes across as a
performance even though on almost
any day, I can retreat from
all emotion and literally
feel nothing or
have no attachment to myself.
which is why this experiment has been so difficult.
I also have a
circuitous way
of telling stories.
If I was being transparent,
I should have told him the first part.
that I dug the hole
and jumped in
and waited for the
man to find me.
but instead I said
I fell in.
(3.)
so then I have to start over.
“the web”
“so I say from the hole
the names and I begin:
- I never loved you.
2. I never loved you.
3. I think I loved you and might still.
4. I hope to love you.”
“and then what happened?”
he spits a little as he leans in
and because in am polite
I ignore him.
he’s kind of frenetic but
composed and I think
it’s a matter of being
too excited about the
story. he says it will
be anonymous.
I know better than to trust
any man or recording
but I have to be right
and show that I am right.
(2.)
I took a sip of water as he leaned in
and I felt the pressure of
electronics and promise
between us.
the documentation of
it all; a Saturn, weight,
a pressure to say the right thing.
not as in flattering,
but correct.
to prove I am truthful.
to prove my ethics.
“and then I reneged it and said
I have no hope in love
and I’ve
never loved anyone.
and then I stood there shaking
from the drop in temperature
for awhile finally adding:
and I never ever will.”
he laughed. he didn’t mean to,
it’s just I have a way of saying
things in a flat delivery
that denotes complete apathy
but it comes across as a
performance even though on almost
any day, I can retreat from
all emotion and literally
feel nothing or
have no attachment to myself.
which is why this experiment has been so difficult.
I also have a
circuitous way
of telling stories.
If I was being transparent,
I should have told him the first part.
that I dug the hole
and jumped in
and waited for the
man to find me.
but instead I said
I fell in.
(3.)
so then I have to start over.
“the web”
it’s all projection.
this is why i chose a solitary life
of weaving in the first place.
you can’t trust a single thought
in your head or a word
anyone says.
when it first started,
i had to name them all.
each person.
and the lie.
i succumbed to a deep
psychosis that lasted
approximately three straight
years and ended abruptly
only days ago.
(1.)
they said to line the candles
up and name them:
each lie you told about
them, each hex you cast upon
them, and each way you
reneged a trap only
later to place it
back.
they said if i could undo each one
I would find my way out.
I woke up in a hole
in the middle of the
forest with no recollection
of anything I’d said
or done. they said
Love.
will.
take.
time.
one of them threw me a
shovel.
we are here,
that little lie about choice.
the way you can’t seem to keep
the gloves on and your knees hurt
from walking to the center of south
philly and back and
(I didn’t touch anything but I didn’t wear a mask)
and the way your tongue forked,
when you began to share the
story of your violence.
what’s been done to me
now done to them,
you begin the ritual
of candle setting.
it’s half pure ire
and directed intent.
say their names aloud:
Oya, Sekhmet, Lilith, Hecate.
I am Artemis.
they say be careful what you say.
you say I am very good
with a word,
a sword, and
un boligrafo
to show you’re trying.
I heed each warning and name
them again
- when the first thing comes true, the second follows swiftly.
that little lie about
choice.
we are here at four candles,
name them again,
love,
namely,
what’s missing:
(let’s review)
anything palpable.
- be careful what you say.
love–a thirst.
will–a birthright.
take justice–not vengeance,
but perception and the gentle
folding of my hands in my lap
as things begin to be done to
them..
time–something I can’t wrap
my head around.
- love is a choice.
and choice. that little lie about
“choice.” write it again without blinking
and what then do you see?
- love.
will.
take.
time.
“the choice”
it’s saturday, and we are
processing some hard truths
like not everything is
meant for you to
win and hold.
it is meant for you
to (open palm now)
grow:
“I did not come here to teach you.
I came here to love you.
Love will teach you.”
daturamoon.com 