Today

I cannot write. Cannot write, cannot write cannotwritecannotwrite.
There is nothing to say, it’s all been read,saidanddone. I cannot write
right: my idealism won’t countenance these mongrel awkwardnesses, won’t
afford them the space, award them the effort, free them for flight —
the gut-dropping, nose-first dive I know it will inevitably be. I cannot write
for that. Not for that. Never. for. that. clipped and terrifying journey.
Each work in turn too small, too frail, too crippled, too pained, too
unfinished… unacclaimed.

But is this the true root of the issue? That I am simply downtrodden
by rejection, by anonymity, by the bruises and blisters, the loss of
braincells resulting from my headfirst dashes at the thick, glass ceiling
above, between me and — who knows what?
Maybe the real problem is that I don’t believe in anything upon anything
else anymore, not after the candle burned out, after the fire died, its smokey
tail lifted away and up to a place I cannot reach or imagine: dissipation.

Now all I can imagine is what I can’t have: the end of the line, that bright and
beckoning finish line, that warm and fulfilling completion that, all said and
done, stops Be-ing, stops weaving, jumping, meaning, feeling, sharing,
hoping: a stagnant place of immobility and grey, building block of infinity
brought to naught, all the curves removed, the shapes nothing without
motion, motive, destination,and the forge fires of Hope.

Death, of a strange kind, is what I seek now, all un-beknownst to
my lackluster soul.

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Killing Clowns

Empty pages are freakish. Too beautiful to touch, to
sully, to fingerprint so casually. They are whole, and
the essence of words, writing,
/ breaks that
/ like speech breaks a full silence.
/
… I live my life breaking things, so why am I so afraid of killing clowns?
/
/
c. Kate Gough 2017

reverberate.verb

I want to reclaim so many words from the INDUSTRIES of today:

Reverberate is a wild, wide, ecstatic word that could cover the
earth with waves of pressure all by itself! The sound of a gong
struck by Olympus-like gods — huge and soul-changing,
sweeping aside old leaves and leftovers
for something fresh and new,
stirring the heart to savor empty space,
the wide open(ing) stillness after

its many
returning
resonances

so that its waters are clear
for whatever comes ) next.


c. Kate Gough

Constructed

Screen Shot 2017-08-17 at 16.37.03

 

you’re
\ \ \ so carefully constructed
flaunting what you
\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ think
they want to see
\ \ \ a rare yet
\ \ \ ordinary concoction of
\ exotic and reliable
\ likeable, careful, reserved:
never
known.

but when you look in the mirror
thousands of dead
birds fly the nest,
falling out of your eyes
to rest
forever
\
still.

~Kate Gough, 8/6/17