You by Michael Bell
Here is the treatment of our condition—
and it begins without protection:
You is one of the most important Gods—
unwittingly decided to go with the light—
the electrochemical creation, and yet—
You is afraid to make your self dead.
“With the destruction of disaster,
“and disaster of destruction,
“How do we support our foundation?”
“I do not know.
“I’ll Read MLK.”
You is my big pink friend—if You goes to Mars, I'll go.
You is the love that I do not own—
You succeeds only when You comes.
You feels like a disease—if You is not satisfied
with the loss of the game, You does not play—
does You not like the fake language?
The first human was not guilty of using this word:
"I work," You writes, "Want to know? [" Search "]
Indeed, it is [used to be] recalled. You thinks this is the correct word—
we have been merging, because of writing—ready to prepare for death—
because You knows we will die/it’s only final/it’s not complete—
not too complete . . . always looked finished to You . . . bye bye.
I Learned on a Rice Paddy
I LEARNED ON A RICE PADDY by Michael Bell
Communication is for confusing one’s self
for teaching one’s self
your mind is a muscle—
you build an idea,
you remember it as a feeling
as a physicality
expressed in a feeling
unless you leave it
and images and sounds and words
are not biology
so once you’ve built a muscle you can’t
expect any combination of those senses
to parse a truth.
I learned this in the dirty marsh
between bright green terraces
when a bug spoke to me in that way
that makes you feel and try to smell it with a sigh.
A man held a gun to my head and said,
“Boy, you tell me what that bug’s sayin’
“you said it talked now make it dance.”
Much obliged the bug hopped on its way and I said goodbye to the clouds,
and I went back to thinking about myself and how words came to mind
I went back to the smells of Puerto Vallarta and the muffin-lady’s muffins on the beach
she told me specifically not to ingest too many beliefs in life or let my thoughts
carry me away
but here I am, now, not sick but comfortable and slightly constipated—
finally I’m meant to do great things for the world.
Each month I choose a new poem I’ve written to feature for your consumption. Enjoy or don’t!