I have been writing a lot of short fiction/poetry pieces in hopes of working them into something larger. A novella? I don't know. Here's chapter one. You're a saint if you read and comment, so crit for crit.

Chapter 1

I have tasted the moon. I have butchered every recipe for egg salad in existence. I have eaten handfuls of tea leaves & always felt much wiser afterwards. I have denounced ‘star gazing’ in favor of ‘star gasping’. I have chopped down trees with beaver teeth (in dreams) to construct Victorian style houses with no rooms, just openness, in order to never be separate. I have denounced the partitioning of space into ‘places’. I want to feel everywhere thing place one it he she & who at once as a palpable whole, rather than a mess of here’s there’s middles & ends.
I have seen shiny Dutch houses with low suspended beams rotted with dust semen sweat ghost spit wax pitch cigarettes & unlaughter as I sat beneath, holding a small figurine of a dead saint I couldn’t name & whose face is lost on me immediately due to the unspecificity of its miracles charm magic dreams intentions intuitions & premonitions. I’d hide my face in the folds of an old waxed clam shell and sit at the sea bottom for all eternity, letting everything pass me by, not being a bother to anyone or anything or everywhere. Little bubbles emitted would be the only sign of my existence. Fish could swim in them. Seaweed could pad their beds. Jellyfish could look at them, from far away, or close up, and wonder, ‘Why?’ Whales could be whales. Things could be things; whatever it is they are and aren’t, alongside my anonymous, unspecific stream of bubbles, working their way up through the blue to wherever bubbles end.
I’ve met enough of these unspecific bubbles to know that most of them are harmless. I still prefer animals, though. Their thoughts are simple, like tiny ballets. I wonder what music sounds like to them.
But, we! we prefer bestial cruelty. Chop the noses off the feathered fox! Ice the furs! **** the leftovers and glorify the come! Crane your necks to simulate the strain of sleeping on pillows quill’d with porcupine brains! No. Not me. Not a, not a, not a young revolutionary! Out in the tented Belgium sky I sing trees) I touch colors) I hear space! Do you hear space? Who here hears space? The ears must be trained in a specific way to eliminate the strains of unspace. Clog them with cue tips. Sea shells, if you’re still a child or an idiot. Jam them with fingertips. It has taken years and days of practice to hear space unpartitioned; as one crescendoing stream of ephemeral bliss of which no palette could taste the subtle differences (none but mine). As churned black currant jam on the lips of a sad, deaf blue whales lips. No echoes, blips, plats, pitters, tohoos, hisses, clacks, or fizzling fizzles. This all seems maddening, but it must; it is.
Like madness I have seen, where buried deep bones of hearts of aching beings sleep. Shall we join them, sweet? In the belly of an aging rest? Or sit here in the symphony of space, hastening our peace? To love the weep of a tear feel in dream, or swim the life we’ve still to keep? For we cannot wear the moon, as it is completely impractical. Only the sea is large enough to hold it. If you don’t get dizzy when you think about all of this, you aren’t thinking hard enough.
Still, I rest and wake before the sun emerges from beneath the pillow-y sky to salt seas & slow roast pork for an evening glow under the umbrella’d patio I constructed from beams of birch, elm, cedar & stuck with honey, pitch & an old seaman’s secret (spit, shhh!). Why? First, to pick flowers from a neighbors garden. I’m not sure of their names (the flowers), but they are yellow, blue(ish), pink, and red. When you smell them all together, they smell like 4 different flowers I stole from my neighbor’s garden. I then make tea. White. Milk. Sugar. Honey. Pass time reading Adams and then force my thoughts into fits in order to understand the transformation one must undergo when braving the freezing ****ing cold of an early morning swim. Then, while shivering in my ghostly pallid, sea dripping down my skin, my body tapering beneath the reflection of water, it occurs to me that I could become a famous writer if I started writing shit like, “Happiness lies within,” or, “Her eyes were the sea, & the sea, her eye-lids.” But I won’t. Not yet, at least. I still have my dignity (haha). I still write for the clouds & contemplate how I am not yet the sea. Dressed in polka dot oyster tie, through motion, meditation & French pressed cumuli. It is dizzy-ing, out here on the peninsula. Careening sails pitch vessels to the sad, hungry jellyfish blooms, & my yolk adrift, though filled with yarns of yearning an omnipotent kitten fuddles around with, perpetually messy-ing the fabric of madness, leaving me with whatever this is. Lonel-y in a cabin where my love once lived.
Sylvia! S! Your ghost still lives! In muddled dreams. Bagged lunches. The wallpaper thick with the soliloquys I babble on with. Teapots. Margarine. Magic. Canoe tipped. The alcove you’d read to and in. Shells. The spiny Siliquaria. A mirror that still holds your breath like a petrified insect. A hammock which still clings to your once flesh of flesh. Yes! Sylvia, your ghost still lives and interrupts my de-partitioned space. Lines my rocky spine shaped by glacial rifts! Wisps and combs and the backs of feathered bows which still hold locks of your autumn mane. All this accumulates and mimics unspace! All those tiny everything’s. All these existential, shit wrapped, tongue stained nothings. I want them all back. My mind is stuck with sap. You have stolen it all. My thirty-two teeth no longer belong to me. You can take the cavity’d tooths, the Colgate truths. You’ve left me only apple cores and the pits of plums. I suck on them helplessly, waiting for the night to come.
I'll catch you in the next day or two and we should talk about this in real-time. I'd like to send you an essay I've been trying to get published on the aesthetic and ontological relationships of poetry and architecture - we've talked about some of this stuff already but I think it ties in well to what you've been getting at lately

this is a nice amalgam. it's arranged better than your last stab at it, I think. the content is different but you are different.
Quote by Arthur Curry
it's official, vintage x metal is the saving grace of this board and/or the antichrist

e-married to
& alaskan_ninja