Friday, October 8
RIVER I DREAM ABOUT Moon river, swollen river, river of starhole and bright, harness river, lichen river, river we velvet with our filth. River of butter and river of witches, river cracked open careful like egg, or burst apart, unleashing its violet load. River mouths, river beds, every back forty creek, every crick, made of trickles, made of synth, river of sound as vibration, river where we all get free. River that curve down a backbone. River through which I particle heat. Feathery and wet, lemony and loud, river that still smells skin, browned around a neck, softened with sweat. River you wear tight on your hips, given in private, or out in the open. River I dream about. River from the inside. River where we shouts the feeling. Septum river, bundle river, river of mercy, sometimes editing so far into night the moon goes (whoosh) dark. Yes, all night river, burnt sugar river. We pull the river into our bellies, we go out walking. We river in darkness as entire paw prints of color and light. Everything rivers in motion. River of holy, river of freaks, river where my fur belong to me. Softer than it seem river. Honey and Vaseline river. Brown river, black river, off the map river. I will be there, printing textures of rock on the skin of me, belly down, face down. My god, it is good to be home. (Oliver Baez Bendorf)