michaelbell

I wish I was in Oklahoma

Oh, carry me home

My good childhood friend

My satisfying adolescent lover

Turn me out

Shake me down

How I want to be with you

At Wahilla

With James

With Donelle

Carrying an array of shotgun

Side arm

“Never leave me like that again you fucker” you said

-     I could not

-     My bother

-     My son and comrade

        Take me back into the fold

  Of our youth

  So that I may prosper

And value from

Our base desires.

 

Beleaguer the day

Once upon once

Moving through and insatiable dilemma

Nomad

Here

You find me

Alive and well

Hereto find me

Decay

And rot

 I love you

So dear

Hold you to the bone

Squeeze tight

I will never let you go

Play a pitiful song for me

So beautiful

Your hand(s)

So silky soft

As they caress

The rough out of a devils prodigy

Unto me - full

Spilled fourth

You know my true desire

 

Look .
I am trying to reinvent myself.
I can’t help but do everything other than what I am supposed to.
It gets me nowhere but here.
It leads me strait into this.
I am half; three quarters.
Where is my bohemia?
 My jet lagged hand
 Scrawling with a pencil
Images
Remembrances of something bitter
Lonely
Full of feeling
 Dark of vision
If I write 2000 words a day would it help me become this other that?
If I paint you will you come to my bedside?
If I am eccentric
Practical
Thin
Endeared
Successful
Accomplished
Driven?
Somehow I doubt that any of these things will matter in the least
My teeth
Rotting out of my head
A bloody mess.

We may be flesh and blood ~

with scars, joy, delicate skin and fragile souls,

but divine we are in spirit and in body/mind.

Archetypes;

magnetizing and repulsing one another add infinitum.

Building the conceptual frame work for our Symbol/display.

Our sexuality: the seat of existence ~

For without the conscious mind the world would be for not.

Without our modes of perception,

the veil would fall and reveal only whispers of patterns.

Traces with no witness

Meet me.

In blank space.

So full and empty.

I want to be Plugged into you.

Jacked into a streamlined fantasy of forever.

Surfing through black ice mirror fiction.

Delicate, soft, images reflected in water.

Grieving, beguiling, immaculate memory.

Imagined matrix of networked ideas that manifest as love.

I reach for you.

Hollowed.

Ashen.

In a brief display of my passion for this.

However misconstrued and off the mark;

My effort, no less than worthy.

After being tagged twice now, I begrudgingly feel obliged to respond. Not the kind of begrudging that is hateful, but rather, a kind of sheepish reluctance to play with my friends - probably some kind of  left-over remnant from childhood experiences; something I would now, in retrospect, identify as existential angst. As an adolescent, my best friend (Gordon Lydia) occasionally told me that when he thought of me, He thought of “the pilgrim” … he would recite the words to me, half drunken; mad with adrenaline and testosterone - trying his best to sound like an authentic amalgamation of Kristofferson and the eviljungleprince.

He's a poet, he's a picker
He's a prophet, he's a pusher
He's a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he's stoned
He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction,
Takin' ev'ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home.

He would croon the lyrics - glassy eyed in slow-motion-full-throttle; on the edge of a precipice. Teetering. We would both dance there together in a kind of Día de los Muertos cellebration.
 
Arbitrary deconstruction in acht movements (das Fakten):

1. My dreams are filled with chaos. Frequent revisitation, A room. A space. Geographic locations without substance. Damp. Mildew. Past lovers; the desert. In flight. Objective. Processing, elaborating on a body of perceptions. Receiving; construct. Reaction. Awake.
2. Black ink. Bold and beautiful. Animal shadow that feeds in the night. Predator. Healer, Lover. Beggar. Scrolling designs unfold without pretension. Eye catching; questions follow. Yes it did. Don’t fuck with me.
3. I had lost myself. Without a name - not even a sense of what I was. Vision; all geometric shapes in the dark. Connectedness. Now I know the knowledge of God. Space. Completely full and empty. Movement and stillness. Binary. Manifesting in an endless array of Probability. Cause and effect; not bound by any strict predictability.
4. Secret fear as a boy. My heart might stop - as if it were broken. I may choke, gag, drown. Nights awake. Thinking of this. The snow. A soft blue reflection. The moon. Magic place in my closet filled with drawings. The inner workings fascinated me. Full of fear that it would turn against me. Body Mind stopping itself. Everything that comes together falls apart.
5. Edit, discard, reconstruct. Discard. Color , hue, saturation. Cut, paste and chop. Minimalize. Lens distortion. Correct exposure. Hours and hours … discard. Lamina, overlay. Hundreds of images. Lexicon of an unknown language. Intuit … discard ... Envision… not enough. Slowly. Accident. Intuit. Enough. Quandary. Self doubt. Appraisal. Adjustment. Submission, Observation. Image.
6. A healer; wounded. The mountains view; perspective. Water in its many forms: frozen and jagged. Rushing; cutting through rock. Muddied and turbulent. Slow and winding. Clear, still, reflective pool.
7. Interior space. Blue with fire. Small black ball of infinite density. Event horizon, choking on an enormous intake of matter. Explosion. Sinking. A small entry point of light, fading. Chewing glass. Pulling my teeth out.
8. A bundle three fold. Genetic sequences expanding selection. Extrapolation. The seat of sexuality unfolding itself; rich with suffering and joy. Movement throughout a continuum. Interconnectedness, blind of its own maneuvers. Blood-line; ancestry. Forward and back. Flux, Interchange. Liquidity. A smiling face. A frowning tear. New love. 

---

Phage therapy developed in Georgia of the former USSR. Phage, meaning to eat, may be the answer to the issue of antibiotic resistant bacteria super-bugs. Bacteriophages are actually predatorial viruses that hunt and reproduce within specific bacteria; coding and binding on specific bacteria receptor cites. The Phage virus attaches itself to the bacteria and injects the bacteria with its own genetic material, causing the bacteria to replicate more phage virus within its cell body. Once the phage have reproduced, they rupture the bacteria's cell membrane, killing it as they exit; traveling on to infect other bacteria.

            These viruses have proved particularly useful in clinical / institutional setting in Georgia where (like in most other places in the world) nomocomial spawned bacteria have become resistant to even the most recent, powerful variants of antibiotics. The use of phage viruses can make clinical procedures appear like a kind of retro-future biological warfare - as seen in the documentary “The virus that Cures” - where doctors pour phage over wounds, deliver it to patients orally in a multi-phage cocktail, treat surgical incision with phage-mist delivered by ultrasonic wands, administer phage intravenously, spray phage on surgical instruments and around the operating room.

    Unfortunately this scientific research had gotten little attention until recently in the west. Despite recent re-interest, many western medical institutions consider phage therapy to be little more than quackery. Even though phage has been long-tested in the former USSR, many complaints from the modern medical community lay in the so called less than rigorous standards of the Georgian researchers and facilities that have been developing phage therapy for more than half a century.

Some additional trials and work have been begun by a modest number of British and American researchers, seeking to bring phage therapy up to speed with the rigors and standards of the modern scientific and medical community. Despite some evidence that phage activity may cause some bacteria to mutate and become more deadly in limited cases, the prognosis for phage as a treatment for bacterial infection looks promising.

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