Meanwhile, Under Colorado ...

A trillion tons of rock & time;

a mountain of consequence and corruption;

a crushing weight, especially at first.

I got used to it.

Thoughts, like water, well up from the core,

gnawing, chewing, eroding

caverns in the stone;

inner worlds to be explored ... 

Slowly ... hours pass over me;

individual grains of sand, gouging tiny channels,

re-shaping me.

Scars spread, a second skin.

Time & Hope: nothing to me. Best let them be.

Soul & Spirit: priceless gems of who I am—

precious liabilities;

safely subducted beneath Mind ... and Mind breaks ... 

Free ... 

While the mountain has its way with what remains,

while the whole luminous world

spins along ... 

oblivious ... 

We feel the sky ... receding.

The distance between us ... thickening.

And we forget each other:

things we’ll no longer see.

Vanquished within the unforgiving wait,

we change.

Twenty trips around the star. Until,

day seven thousand three hundred and twenty-three ... 

When we stir, inside. Our sentence, suddenly unsettled ... 

The trillion tons of rock & time have shifted ... 

Air, sucked fresh from the living world;

tainted with the scent of ... possibilities ... 

Mind returns.

Soul & Spirit emerge.

And we breathe ... 

Deeply.

Time & Hope rip into us.

Rending agony, beyond imagination.

Time has eaten much,

but it’s hope that hurts the worst.

As dreams & desires become

like cancer;

Mind, Soul & Spirit devour each other.

Beneath the State, Hope is cannibalistic.

For in the dark we see:

luculent shadows of the sun and stars ... 

And Soul screams and Spirit yells: oh the light!

That’s where we live! Dig! Dig! There it is! Please! Please dig!

But Mind—recoils.

“This cannot be.”

“We have no faith in Hope. Hope betrays us every time.”

But they thrash & writhe & wine & plead!!!

So Mind whips them

until they still.

Submitting them to logic. Suppressing them to wisdom.

Mind reminding them that Mind is free, no matter, our body rots.

“Stay away from Hope. Its dangerous.

Here, you like to paint. Try writing some poetry.”

And they simmer down, express themselves,

and play ... 

While Mind watches over them, flawed guardian ... 

and digs ... 

Creating a passage that might, one day, give them back the sky.

Rock & time resettle, heavier and lighter than before.

Then, on day seven thousand eight hundred and seventy-five ... 

The worm-infested mountain

shifts,

again.

The second wave of Hope,

the human world,

so long withheld,

crashes into us.

A streaming tide of music,

submerging us in crystal-clear emotion;

washing away logic, muddying up wisdom.

Mind, Soul & Spirit dissolve ... back into one ... 

And I’m whole again!

And I sing!

And, in the echo of my voice ... 

A stranger.

Every song turned,

eulogy

upon eulogy

upon eulogy.

Each filled with such desperate longing,

rising like the tide,

swelling like the ocean

that aches to bathe the moon ... 

And I feel everything.

Scraping me raw

against the stone.

With every return of my inner gaze ... 

I can taste, smell & touch the loved and the lost inside my head

and the songs like acid pour into my chest and I’m suffocating—

I cannot breathe—despair is erasing me and I want to love

again but I’m so spectacularly alone ... 

And now that we are me again,

there’s no one but me

to save myself ... 

And I’m so very tired ... 

With nothing

to hold onto

its easy to let go ... 

Until a voice, unique in all the world,

I think,

envelopes me.

I can feel the familiar

persona of a woman ... 

Refracted & reflected,

so perfectly crafted.

A siren of salvation calling

from above the waves.

Uplifting with her falling pitch.

Elegant with contradictions.

An ink-stained songbird with a broken wing.

Lyrics

aged & charred in oak and nicotine.

Fret-scarred fingers lacing me with strings.

So mesmerizing, this

classically trained masochist, exhibitionist, submissive,

achieving emotional liberation as

the monogamous main attraction at

a narcissistic orgy

exclusively

open to the public.

Such a poignant distillation

of the girly-brain:

yearning to be completely understood, treasured, and respected,

while longing to be routinely plundered, possessed, and beyond redemption.

But, I have no idea who she really is,

so I like to assume she’s sincere;

singing of what was, wished or

might never be ... 

Whoever she might be.

I reach deep into her

expressions,

as deep as I can go.

And let her expose me to the storm,

to wash my Soul & Spirit clean

so I can dream

of dreams again.

And it burns me, hurts me,

exquisitely like:

a jagged seed of molten glass thrust, fingers & tongue

into my heart, my cherished wound, where it grows ... 

Feeding on memory, invading, spreading into me ... 

Ripping, tearing, bursting through ... 

Arrogant blossom of ruin—

I drink from you.

Lapping feeling,

injecting meaning,

so empty-sweet

narcotic thick.

Like every kiss

I never kissed

raked across

my breathless lips.

Oh how I’ve missed this!

Dear God: fuck life without this!

I must hold onto this:

relentless, restless rhythmic hunger;

love & nothing at war in my chest;

sucking vacuum, spraying warmth;

blood swirled with honey—

every time you cut me—

my flex-fuel heart pumps both.

Pumps both.

Pumps. Both.

Pumps ... 

Both ... 

(inhale deeply)

As the last note falls,

the murmur of rock & time

nestles around me ... 

Except ... 

Through a path

I’ve dug in the rubble ... 

I see the moon.

And I’ve never been

so intimately alone

as I am

when I’m with you.

Gergana Petrova Micheva,

or Geri—as you like it,

from one killer

to another,

I just thought

you’d like to know.