I mean, as long as we must be here – our emotional innards scraped raw and smooth like a pumpkin’s hollow – we might as well use it.
While I work now, I watch different versions of Wuthering Heights. I’m trying to watch them all. There are a lot. I’m looking for something, but I’m not sure what. It’s something about younger me, something that slipped off and fell. I’m trying to figure something out, methodically tendriling through the floor of a dark lake, searching for something rare I lost. I’m not sure what. A will or a desire or a spark, perhaps.
One of the times I miscarried early, I was alone on the floor, losing it, writhing in pain. Both of my dogs stood over me. The one, the small one, the Pisces Moon, concerned and tending me, the other, staring at me, her will and force telling me to get the fuck up.
I didn’t read Wuthering Heights until my late 20s which was like reading under a spotlight just turned on, angels trying to teach me something, pushing my head closer to the page, saying ‘learn.’ Wuthering Heights should never feel autobiographical, and, one should never have to consider the cost, decades later, a cautionary tale you arrived at too late to heed. What was dropped in the process of faith and karma, twinning and isolation, toxicity.
This protracted Scorpio season due to Venus’ retrograde through, then Mercury, now the Sun, has stretched our emotional excavation past a short season into an extended exhumation. Denying the work would only leave us lingering in ignorance later, less transformed, less faceted than we might shape ourselves now. That doesn’t mean it’s emotionally without cost. Excavating in the dark means we residing there, feeling our way versus seeing any dangers. We need to go back for everything we forgot, pick it up, or at least gather it so that no one else can have it without our consciously sharing.
Simon the Good
– – Joyelle McSweeney
I’m the matron-king of hell In yoga pants and a disused bra for a laurel & shatter the scene inside your simmering year Like a ransom scene filmed through shattered transom I smear in my glamour I make as if to justify the ways of God to man That’s my ticket in That’s why God lets me speak here Crystostoma’d on his couch Even though I’m derived from Hell Hellish Helenish Hellenic I’m the hanged man in this version pegged up in mine pegged jeans by mine ancles, an inversion mine manacles are monocoles I spit out the key and squinny through the keyhole back at the unquittable world In my rainment of gummy sunglasses and crows wings for epaulets I delicately squawk from the edges of things balance unsteadily on the bust of the goddess squawk: Aeschelus Euphorion Aeschelus Euphorion &: I’m going to tell you something so bad that when you hear it you’re gonna know it’s true. Like all the worst stories It comes from the heart & it goes there too. Back here in St. Joseph County a struck duck flies crown first into the asphalt and is stuck there with its brains for adhesive like someone licked the pavement and sealed it a postalette with its cartoon feet in the air and its Jeff Koon wings that’s roadkill for you: realer than real and the cars mill by with their wheels in reverse heavy as chariots in a dealership commercial and I am walking my dog by the river a matron from hell look on me and despise I am like the river: thick as beer and with a sudsy crown there polyethylene bags drape the banks like herons and a plastic jug rides a current with something like the determination that creases mine own brow as I attempt to burn my lunch off the determination of garbage riding for its drain hey-nonny it’s spring and everything wears a crown as it rides its thick doom to its noplace gently brushed by pollen by the wings of hymenoptera like a helicoptera performing its opera all above Indiana bearing the babes away from their births to their berths in the NICU in Indie-un-apple-us Unapple us, moron God, You’ve turned me Deophobic the greasy tracks you leave all over the internet the slicey DNA in the scramblechondria the torn jeans panicked like space invaders in an arcane video game oh spittle-pink blossom the tree don’t need nomore shook down to slick the pavement like a payslip you disused killer app each thought strikes my brain like the spirals in a ham pink pink for easter sliced by something machinic each thought zeros in flies hapless and demented festooned like a lawn dart finds its bit of eye spills its champagne split of pain then we come to our senses suddenly alone in the endzone