open channel // poetry

blue

sit & wonder at the words of another,

considering as letters flutter from where do thoughts come

how correct or present words come up & out, to & from:

pieces of a person picked up on the street,

songs you hear but don’t over & over:

the epiphany on the glass

as pecan branches crawl through the window

: swollen eyes reaching :

out of the blue.

wondering where words end & begin,

i wrote this &

i could not identify any of the sounds

or letters before they appeared on the page

& the only answer i found sounded so much like the only question

i asked:

what is coming

what is coming out of the blue:

i’ve been talking to colors & flowers & reflections of you & me & everyone

else & blue is always whispering

never feeling the urgency to raise a voice because blue is all about truth

whispering the truths, the truths, the things we know the answers to

but constantly search elsewhere for

,, looking helplessly around as if we have no concept of the lies

we sit with every morning, day, & night ,,

blue keeps a small dagger tied to their inner thigh & never yells

because when you hear your truth everyday

(that thought we push back constantly in waking, constantly in sleeping)

every minute, every fucking second when you hear it

volume ceases to play a part.

it is the small cut,

the stab when truth is heard.

if there is anything blue has taught me it’s that you can go ever-more

out into the nothing, the void, the space, into yourself, themselves,

himself, herself, & not find what you want,

but blue will come endlessly back out to you.

it’s when you step towards it :::

words becoming thought becoming sharp , swords in my throat,

becoming words & actions again.

blue: this cool, ever-expanding environment where the children of truth go to grow,

go to scream about the things their families did to them,

where animals go to die, to crawl back out the birth canal

to try & feel like this is the first they have ever breathed.

if you go into the blue it will only take you for so long

until it’s pushing you back out, endlessly pouring out of this space.

do not go into the deep expecting to find any semblance of muse

((you do not go to the muse for it chooses you))

but fall, trip out of the blue & it will follow.

to sit & wonder at the words of another,

considering as letters flutter from where do thoughts come

how correct or present words come up & out, to & from:

pieces of a person picked up on the street,

songs you hear but don’t over & over:

the epiphany on the glass

as pecan branches crawl through the window

: swollen eyes reaching :

out of the blue.

wondering where words end & begin,

i wrote this &

i could not identify any of the sounds

or letters before they appeared on the page

& the only answer i found sounded so much like the only question

i asked:

what is coming

what is coming out of the blue:

i’ve been talking to colors & flowers & reflections of you & me & everyone

else & blue is always whispering

never feeling the urgency to raise a voice because blue is all about truth

whispering the truths, the truths, the things we know the answers to

but constantly search elsewhere for

,, looking helplessly around as if we have no concept of the lies

we sit with every morning, day, & night ,,

blue keeps a small dagger tied to their inner thigh & never yells

because when you hear your truth everyday

(that thought we push back constantly in waking, constantly in sleeping)

every minute, every fucking second when you hear it

volume ceases to play a part.

it is the small cut,

the stab when truth is heard.

if there is anything blue has taught me it’s that you can go ever-more

out into the nothing, the void, the space, into yourself, themselves,

himself, herself, & not find what you want,

but blue will come endlessly back out to you.

it’s when you step towards it :::

words becoming thought becoming sharp , swords in my throat,

becoming words & actions again.

blue: this cool, ever-expanding environment where the children of truth go to grow,

go to scream about the things their families did to them,

where animals go to die, to crawl back out the birth canal

to try & feel like this is the first they have ever breathed.

if you go into the blue it will only take you for so long

until it’s pushing you back out, endlessly pouring out of this space.

do not go into the deep expecting to find any semblance of muse

((you do not go to the muse for it chooses you))

but fall, trip out of the blue & it will follow.

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