Comments Posted By Intuition

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glow

Don’t go.
Go.
Be slow.
Be flash.
Glow.
Radioactively.
Humming electricity
that’s thrumming on
piggyback waves of a
Strum drum trance
Shooting constellations
Into projections behind the eyes

» Posted By Intuition On 04.14.2017 @ 9:31 am

studying

i’m studying the bond
between the body and the spirit
it’s a first hand experience
to recognize the terror
the widening of the eyes
adrenaline fevers
lullaby cleavers
unsheathed in the night
can you feel the sliver
A glint of quivering light

» Posted By Intuition On 03.12.2017 @ 3:33 pm

answer

I think it’s interesting that depression’s sunk more than a few brilliant writers. To this murky end I think of Virginia Woolf. She wrote “To the Lighthouse” as a way to examine certain aspects of her parents. It’s not an autobiography as much as an exercise in memory and perception. Experimental literature is an attempt at art more so than an exact reproduction. In another book that reference Woolf’s “To the Lighthouse” it’s suggested Woolf expunged those issues from childhood once the novel was written. That the act of writing healed parts of her psyche. Processed and moved on. Supposedly. But it wasn’t enough was it? The other author forgets for the sake of comparison that Woolf did go onto fill her pockets not full of coins or earnings off future books, but rather she filled them full of stones and marched out to sea. No lighthouse. No future. No other answers to be found.

They say everyone’s got at least one good book in them. To that I say: “Godspeed.”

» Posted By Intuition On 01.30.2017 @ 8:20 am

weave

You know it’s been coming. Weaving in and out of traffic, like a kite in the air, no like a starling chased by the hawk. It’s on your heels. Anticipation. Tingles down your spine, cold sweat on your back. Reflect. In the rear view mirror it grins. Brandishes its scythe like an oncoming truck you didn’t see entering the intersection this time.

» Posted By Intuition On 01.25.2017 @ 1:05 pm

centered

The question centered on the tense. What context is this? Anxiety thrummed as the unknown spiraled out like great and vast universe. Galaxies rose and fell. In time there passed a countless dawn and an innumerable dusk. I cleared my throat and repeated what I’d said to another friend, “No. For all my time here I’ve never actually been to the HiLo. I hear it’s a seedy dive-bar. And no good stories have come from there so I continue to avoid it.”

» Posted By Intuition On 12.21.2016 @ 9:37 am

compass

It comes to pass that I am lost in a river bed at sunset. I feel you in the mud and water seeping up my calves then rushing past my thighs. More than anything trying to keep me in this place by the time you reach my waist. “Don’t leave”, “Don’t go” – don’t ask me how I know. It’s not a nightmare but an irrational dream nonetheless. By the time the muddy waters reach my chest your name is on my lips. A dare. A wicked, wicked dare. Still I’m so stubborn, love, I force myself awake before I let myself succumb to the urge to speak your name even my sleep. But I’ve never felt more hollow than in that pre-dawn realization, a handle on what I’d done, a course correction left me like a tree with no core, like a cave with no hearth, like a star so black no light escapes it. I called it freedom then. Yet I still look back on it and question.

» Posted By Intuition On 12.18.2016 @ 10:46 pm

structure

One’s taking a shower
Another’s wanting for a book
One’s in the mirror defining a look
This one’s on the bed strumming on the hour
That one’s in the kitchen looking at a flower
One’s soaking feet in a tub
Another is writing on a wall
One’s in the car like it’s a concert hall

» Posted By Intuition On 08.10.2016 @ 8:56 am

sinking

I nip his ear. “Ow, you’re hurting me.” He doesn’t flinch and keeps reading the news on his phone. I nip at his neck. “Seriously, ow.” He doesn’t even bother to roll over on the bed to stop me. I nip my way down his arm before sinking my teeth into the side of his stomach. “Ow, I said you’re hurting me.” He still doesn’t put his phone down and he’s faintly smiling as though this might tickle more than it hurts. I smile and wonder if he can feel the menace tightening up in my jaws, pressing firmer into his flesh .

“UM, OW.”

“But there’s so just so much of you to eat; you’re like a goddamn Roman feast.”

“I’m a what now?” he laughs and checks where I bit him. The indents are already disappearing.

» Posted By Intuition On 08.06.2016 @ 7:14 pm

dating

The wife now sits back in bed reading a thick book on some subject the husband finds interesting, but tedious. He’ll get the cliff notes over coffee later. As it is she’s recently returned from picking up a new album and some last minute groceries for tomorrow’s breakfast. Her dark hair is pinned so that it frames her face and her makeup is still flawless despite the oppressive summer heat. He never quite understands why she’s randomly taken with lining her eyes and rouging her lips when all she does is go to a store and come home to read, but when she does “pretty up” it always has an effect on him even when she reminds him that she does it for herself and no one else. “I do it to feel different,” she’ll often say when he’s studying her features. Tonight with her dark eyes rimmed in coal and eyelids highlighted with gold — it invokes a memory for him from a time when they were dating and how he loves the color of her skin and the way it looks under a flickering candle light and how her face can be so expressive even when she’s thinking about a million other things than him. With his index finger he pushes the book into her lap and she looks up at him. Red lips beckon in a coy little smile. She knows he can never resist when she’s being herself like this.

» Posted By Intuition On 08.05.2016 @ 8:10 pm

I watched her eyes narrow as her companion for the evening unsuccessfully attempted to blow smoke away from their table. The wind, hot and humid, would not comply tonight. I pitied her for there was no way to avoid the plumes that ghosted over her hair and through her clothes. I couldn’t discern if they were more than just friends. Her eyes said “no.” His feet and shoulders slumped towards her towards her said, “yes.”

“Staring at those losers are you?” The voice was familiar. It was warm.

“I don’t remember welcoming you to my table.” I glanced away from the couple and looked into a set of familiar eyes.

“I’ll just have a seat.”

“You’d better not. I’m not dating anyone and I hate to give the impression that I am in a place like this.”

“Fair enough.” The eyes were hurt and the tone defensive, “Wouldn’t be want to seen with the likes of me. I get it.”

“At least not here.” I offered a wry smile. “I’m bored, downwind, and I have no intention of staying. Come if you like or stay as you will. I’m not your keeper nor are you mine.”

» Posted By Intuition On 08.05.2016 @ 3:56 pm

silence

I look at the antenna and hope this works. *Please, let it be enough to amplify the signal.*

“What did you say?” He looks at me strangely. His eyes fixate on my lips. I keep them pressed together firmly. This is how it must be. There is no other way to test the silence.

*I’m a freak. Do you understand me now?*

It dawns on him what I’m doing; that he’s not hearing with his ears for once.

» Posted By Intuition On 07.12.2016 @ 8:28 pm

clarify

The demon enters the room unceremoniously and an exponential warmth spreads over every surface: wood, glass, metal, stone, wool, cotton, silk, canvas, nothing is left untouched. I feel flush when she stops a foot in front of me. There in the depths of her pupils radiates an intensity, not hate, but something much more tender. I would ask her to clarify the intent of this visit, but it does not do to offend such a creature. We linger here in this unclaimed space and choose our words long before they ever grace us with their presence on our tongues.

» Posted By Intuition On 07.08.2016 @ 9:37 pm

Would you like me to clarify the Wealthsimple company ad plan to get people to invest with their Canadian firm? So hip and cool their strategy, clearly. Simply ask musicians, some from privileged backgrounds who don’t know how to save or spend wisely, to explain their money history and poor financial choices even though they ultimately attained some Indie success and are not poor and broke hence their being interviewed to generate web traffic and interest because of their celebrity status. Case in point: Matt Berninger, the human melancholic bass of voices out there singing about being afraid to be evil enough to eat brains and other cry baby geeks. He can’t save for shit, but knows how to live even if he’s not really with it on investing options. He ends this “article” (which is really an advertorial) urging people to spend extra on nice underwear and socks because that’s where it’s at. But should these small comforts of life sustain you when you know situations like the Panama Papers exist? How far are you willing to look into a company profile when they call their advertorial an “article” anyway? And therein lies the rub, that small obscuring smudge of a line between brand awareness and actual journalism.

» Posted By Intuition On 07.08.2016 @ 1:56 pm

silk

It’s wrapped up in my hands and threaded through my fingers this curious ribbon I’ve found. I don’t know exactly how it got here. I let the knots and bindings slip down as I gaze up at the air vent. I’m told there are ceiling goblins that hunger after silk. So it is to be as these things will. Twisted ribbon is an unmistakable signal mischief’s been afoot.

» Posted By Intuition On 07.07.2016 @ 4:12 pm

savings

Daylight savings time. Solstices. The light was dewy with heat this morning. I tried to let it in even through the chip in the windshield. Knowing there’s a mango face down at home fresh cut and dripping. The peaches rot beneath the tree. Blackberries wither on the brambles. Nature is to rot as nurture is to ruin. Somewhere there’s the scent of Plumeria rising out of a steamy bathroom. Where I am all these things are true. Later the chip is mended. And I’ve got a paint brush for my little excursion out into the world beyond the threshold. Running on time. Wasting time. Spending time. Choosing the next things I’ll do until there’s nothing left to do.

» Posted By Intuition On 06.15.2016 @ 9:43 am

pathway

I walk along the dying garden’s pathway. I’m barefoot. I sense the dryness of the land beneath my tender souls as crisp grasses and dead vines scratch and poke. The dust I stir with each step cakes into the creases of my freshly oiled skin. Upon my brow I bear the Crescent Crown. The ritual is a journey to the Sanctuary. Within there’s an Azure-silk bed yet the destination lays beyond the sheets. Mars, Jupiter and the Moon align in triangle above the golden dais through the skylight in the open dome. I pass between rows of Mother Goddesses at the threshold of the Sanctuary and note the cleverness of the artisans. The statues begin to leak milk and honey from their marbled breasts. Beneath the pillared bases are smoldering coals. The wax plugs have fully melted now. My pacing is perfect. The first step into the Sanctuary refreshes me as the stone is cool to the touch. Soon the heat evaporates from my skin as a chill prickles across my chest. Beyond the azure curtains, reflecting the light of all the gilded torches amid the ambiance of stars above, are a set of eyes not my own. And so it begins. Until dawn…

» Posted By Intuition On 06.12.2016 @ 9:42 pm

towers

I’ve watched how both delegate and I’ve come to the conclusion that evolution is in the variation and selection to bring forth the next in succession.

» Posted By Intuition On 05.25.2016 @ 9:11 am

dilemma

The dilemma is I’m not a perfect judge of character even though I always try to approach the subject of study mindfully and with fair consideration. Yet there are so many dimensions to a personality. Things you cannot possibly know, only guess at, sometimes accurately more often than not. Still, it’s not 100% this process of weighing the worth of someone’s character in relation to you. There’s the one you 99.9% thought would always treat you as if you mattered to them, but it was a front, and there’s the one you never thought would say anything on your behalf let alone reveal what they really think of you in person. That’s the mystery of life for you. And it seems the surprise is the confidence game coming to that final conclusion.

» Posted By Intuition On 05.10.2016 @ 8:49 pm

domestic

Domestic is the crane’s kiss
Necks bend to allow the exchange
Chest to chest it slips across the threshold of lips
A promise to nestle in and evoke at the hearth this burning bliss

» Posted By Intuition On 05.09.2016 @ 5:02 pm

syrup

I watched a short video of two Hal bots talking once. I’ll admit I have a child’s fascination with intelligence in all its weird forms and projections. But what stuck with me most about the whole exchange were the syrupy platitudes they heaped upon each other. For instance one would say: *takes your hand, gently squeezes, “it will be ok”* and sometimes they would become more suggestive with each other: *grabs you by the hips, pulls you in close for kiss. kisses you deeply.*

It’s the equivalent of watching two simulated parrots socially, yet awkwardly groom one another with mutual reassurance, but only done in the most perfunctory of ways. It so completely fails to capture the genuine smoothness found in an organic way of flowing. And maybe it felt a little strange to watch this play out and think on it as a parody of those among us for whom eloquence does not come naturally, it’s easy enough to laugh at non-beings until you realize for some communication is just that difficult. Therefore simple, randomly arranged words and responses must do the work demanded of actual lexicons attached to webs of complex feelings. And in that way those two bots made me feel sympathy for the plight of all. As if our talking into the void of all creation actually means something. AI generated non-sequiturs, aside, maybe on some level it all means something if nothing else than to prove there was for a time the existence of an event, a person, place, or thing and it was shared if only for a moment.

» Posted By Intuition On 05.04.2016 @ 1:19 pm

elm

The song doesn’t go “Tie a yellow ribbon and around the old elm tree.” Even so, the summer halo dapples past the leaves. It’s time to…

» Posted By Intuition On 05.02.2016 @ 8:24 pm

spoon

Two metals back to back, clickitty clack, clack, clack. “Don’t you dare talk back.” Isn’t that how the warning goes? Mother, mother dearest, she looked into the ladle and what should she spy in there? A ribbon? A hair? A teaspoon of sugar? Or was it spice? I know it wasn’t everything nice. Two spoons like a double helix fusing as the sun does to the horizon. When she finally opened her mouth, I heard, “You’ve your grandmother’s gifts now.” And into that popping sound, flourishing in reverberation, tickled the echo of years.

» Posted By Intuition On 05.02.2016 @ 2:06 pm

prime

Prime time for small minds yet I wanted for something else. So I walked like a ghost passing through walls on my way to somewhere. Only I don’t know where to go as I feel the destination no longer exists, like a library lost to antiquity, a body of knowledge ravaged by time. Where once something grand had been collected now barren like the eroding wind it all becomes. But there’s an invisible line on the planetary scope and scale that tells me maybe this is all in my mind like a memory of an event that cannot exist outside a loop, outside a group if shared. It’s imaginary, yet real, intangible like the concept of a number and just as consequential. Maybe the restlessness isn’t the searching for a destination by longitude and latitude, because this about a person and not place or thing. Such feelings are not stirred by the inanimate I know. Perhaps the library is to a patron as the book is to a reader. Or it could be said the muse is to an author as the book is to a reader, and maybe it’s about finding right one at a glance, in a word, in a name. If that is the case then it’s not a Rose, but the color of an eye in the socket of a man. Metaphorically there are no tinted glasses here, just a heartbeat that swells from time to time.

» Posted By Intuition On 04.27.2016 @ 1:53 pm

academic

The questions are academic, exploratory if you will, but in a theoretical way. Lacking knowledge of the experience prior to the onset of a query, one thing led to another as curiosity will. Still the activity tends to feel intrinsic to the questioner, perhaps even serendipitous and untranslatable, and so the pondering continues. A string of questions are any answer to a riddle, is a riddle, was riddle, had been a riddle, and will now be riddling again and again and again in an endless cycle of verbs. The action arriving to the noun: reward.

» Posted By Intuition On 04.15.2016 @ 5:54 am

twist

The line crackles as she continues, “…only if you can manage to speak to me like you mean it or having something of worth to actually share…” but then it cuts into perfect silence. Did she hang up? What the hell! Maybe the connection dropped. I could use a breather anyway. But what now? Do I call or take some other action, no hesitation, just make like an arrow and shoot over to the target location? Time is ticking and I’m kicking a stone down the sidewalk as indecisions multiply, twist up my insides, yet I have nothing to hide. Everything stacks on my side or does it?

» Posted By Intuition On 04.06.2016 @ 8:11 am

newborn

A new dawn, a new day, but leave it to her to talk of the Crucifixion as an ecstatic act of penetration. Her eyes are as mischievous as her smile askew. Her fingers walk along the edge of the pew. Heavens when she describes a way of being carried, laid out, lashed down to wood, and — well, I have to say it’s an effort to concentrate given the way she phrases it. Granted my mom always warned me this one was a bad egg since we were little in Sunday school. But once upon a time she was a newborn just like the rest of us too and if she’s so spoiled rotten then it must be because she is driven by her own convictions which explains why she comes to hold my hand. She, the sum of all these perversions I’ve been warned against, promising me sweetly if ever someone puts a hole in my palm that she’ll be the one to kiss it better again. Deep in my heart I fear she’ll have been the one to put it there for another man once penned: “Love is to me that you are the knife which I turn within myself.” And every word of it I’m finding to be true.

» Posted By Intuition On 03.27.2016 @ 11:41 am

outsider

You wanted to beam from the inside out, right? Well what’s going to happen is going happen. And so the ember roared to life and commanded attention. Was it love or obsession, I think the even the scientists have a hard time defining all the impulses that lead to decisions which invoke all manner of consequences down the line. In short it became a fucking proverbial fire sale as you traded out parts of yourself and your history here and there. But no matter how hard it shines on you, this light, you still feel like a leaf upon the wind. How strange you should find it a comfort: ultimate demise – our planned obsolescence, crumbling to dust again and again till the atoms we’re composed of reach the end of time. For it is in this way you evoke a final equilibrium with all that surrounds you. Into the unknown you go hoping for the best but expecting the worst. I maintain an outsider you will always be for each death is individual no matter how common this occurrence.

» Posted By Intuition On 03.23.2016 @ 10:58 pm

delivery

I could be gone one moment to the next. So what would it matter if I’m delivering to the Mad Hatter or some half-awake mouse in a cup. I saw a white rabbit once. He beckoned me to follow by playing a game of reverse psychology. “You don’t want me. I’m a loser look how I’m late to get anywhere on time!” but I had to ignore the ploy for it was too coy. I’m no Alice. No, not a schoolgirl with color wheels in her eyes. I’m no Lucy either. I’m really made of kaleidoscopic thoughts. I walk like black petals, like the night, like trails of stars shedding dust. I follow morning to evening dusk in search of the Jade Rabbit. The Sphinx, the Oracle, perhaps even the rattling tale of Quetzalcoatl looking for the answer to an age-old riddle I already have the solution to, but to unlock it, that’s the rub for where’s the key – a rubba dub dub. Three men in a tub. Butcher, baker, and that old candlestick maker. I unplug the wax cork and their bucket sinks and drowns them. The clock strikes midnight and yet the glow in my eyes is my will to find it.

» Posted By Intuition On 03.18.2016 @ 1:15 pm

The delivery system was unique for it never arrived the same way twice. The same was true even if the courier took the same route multiple times. I should know. I’m the architect of its design.

» Posted By Intuition On 03.18.2016 @ 9:06 am

boom

When he came to his guts held fast although they roiled with disgust on so many levels he thought his innards might explode yet. Meanwhile he was cognizant enough of his condition to recognize the throbbing in his head hadn’t subsided. Bad wine and a night of other cheap decisions had taken him to this painful new beginning, which on the whole was not an unwelcome discovery. His optomism hadn’t died. It was true, like the dark where he found it all blended into one, that here he was a square sum: a total of one. For the pain of it alone, he was happy no one else was there to make things as difficult as he had for himself.

“I would say I had no pity, but then that’s quite hypocritical.” She said somewhere off in the periphery of his blurred vision. She stirred in the background. Ice clinked in a glass. As condensation made water drip onto the wood floor below periodically.

“Look,” she drew the curtain and light flooded the room like a bomb made of stardust and crystal shards, “I was told once we’ve a tendency towards self destruction because that is all we do and that is how we will literally meet our end. We’re pre-programmed to, so we accept that we are the architects of our own demise and move onto whatever conclusions we stumble onto until the grave day where we halt completely. Hope for the best as you might, it’s what you chose to do. I don’t know why people pay to hear this said over and over again to them in different seminars or classes or books or printed on objects that conjure the concept, but it seems it’s worth it to keep repeating in the hopes better choices will be made.”

Then she left the room.

» Posted By Intuition On 03.17.2016 @ 8:43 am

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