I can smell my armpits very faintly
hemorrhoid and I miss California
Tag Archives: arm
Tight, struggle arms, aches slight in shoulders, upper arms and jaw.
War—there—you might lose your arms.
Arms are impermanent.
Happily, no arms. Her bruise is permanent, now permanent. Operations that abuse the body.
This morning I listened to stories about the golden carp. And stories about stories. And resistance to the fact of stories. And the sources of stories. Beyond. All I can tell you.
You enters shyly. You has been driven away, off the mountain path. You has flown over the cliff in a blaze of herbal fire and lifting smoke. I feel your cloud on my arms. I feel cold leaching down my arms. I feel devils on my arms, in my hands. I feel dust coming up, dust and ash, clouds of smoke from the charnel grounds.
Her laughter—can’t kill herself because her son would then have to kill himself. I listen and might be tempted to be afraid, temptation to be afraid, mentally ill like everyone one. Everyone one.
So here we go—
Braver tonight about the cold in my arms. The scratching sound the pen makes. Smoothness here, no buttons. Smoothness, softness and smoothness.
Ready to adopt my own arm, a child with a disfigurement.