i don't know much
all i know is
i'd play with it
and fuck it up
because i fuck up everything i have
between the valleys
there is a crag
and on that crag
an elegant man
the water is shallow
the winds are soft
they carry off
the hat from his head
his hand reaches
but too late
the hat is gone
cradled by water
his scarf flows
his feet rise
his head looks up
and his eyes look down
the valleys are tall
and so is the man
he grows until he reaches
the blankness below.
there is a crag
and on that crag
an elegant man
the water is shallow
the winds are soft
they carry off
the hat from his head
his hand reaches
but too late
the hat is gone
cradled by water
his scarf flows
his feet rise
his head looks up
and his eyes look down
the valleys are tall
and so is the man
he grows until he reaches
the blankness below.
i am the good substitute,
the second choice, next
to the last in your list
of fears. This year,
i will keep you warm
enough, for the time being.
At seven am, the sun
fights to crack through,
bleeding the gray to make
light of today.
What is there is all we have,
and it is better than chasing
when you're lazy in the morning,
and even worse at night.
the second choice, next
to the last in your list
of fears. This year,
i will keep you warm
enough, for the time being.
At seven am, the sun
fights to crack through,
bleeding the gray to make
light of today.
What is there is all we have,
and it is better than chasing
when you're lazy in the morning,
and even worse at night.
mother
little by little
the water trickles
down down the baby
drowning in the hole
the tree the canopy
breaks through the sky
falls through the infant
chewing out her way
the water trickles
down down the baby
drowning in the hole
the tree the canopy
breaks through the sky
falls through the infant
chewing out her way
the question is, why are you walking in the woods at this time?
out in the woods, mom turns back and tells me to watch out for the slippery mud parts. i try to avoid stepping in her footprints, but really, everything is muddy after it rains, and what's the point of trying to stay clean when you're walking in the woods after a rain?
the hour only comes into the house through the back door now.
is it bad that i am used to boredom?
i can sit here and be fine with it.
it feels a bit tiring, a bit useless.
i feel wasteful, but i have adjusted my watch.
today, her voice is setting my peace on fire.
i watch it curl up and burn. she talks into the phone.
she raises the volume of the fire when he says no.
i see the smoke.
she touches and tickles the ceiling.
she is rising but has nowhere to go.
the ceiling squirms.
the ceiling has never moved before.
the smoke insists.
come.
come.
come.
the smoke pleads in her slow way,
playful in grace at first but now
she is crying, angry at the rejection
of today's blankness. there is so much
boredom and she has never felt it like this before.
she walks into the bathroom and closes the door.
she looks into the mirror and fills the space.
she looks at herself and every bit looks the same.
i can sit here and be fine with it.
it feels a bit tiring, a bit useless.
i feel wasteful, but i have adjusted my watch.
today, her voice is setting my peace on fire.
i watch it curl up and burn. she talks into the phone.
she raises the volume of the fire when he says no.
i see the smoke.
she touches and tickles the ceiling.
she is rising but has nowhere to go.
the ceiling squirms.
the ceiling has never moved before.
the smoke insists.
come.
come.
come.
the smoke pleads in her slow way,
playful in grace at first but now
she is crying, angry at the rejection
of today's blankness. there is so much
boredom and she has never felt it like this before.
she walks into the bathroom and closes the door.
she looks into the mirror and fills the space.
she looks at herself and every bit looks the same.
when words fall out
when words fall out unnoticed it's not that they disappear. you can pull up the history and look, there they are. but no one eats stale bread. people put stale bread in bread puddings, or tomato soups. you have to recycle them into something new. you either eat the bread fresh from the oven, or you make bread pudding.
or you throw it out and try to forget about it.
or you throw it out and try to forget about it.
placements.
tonight, to replace what is not
here: all sprawled: the camera,
the computer, the orange winter
jacket with the barely warm hood,
the handmade book that is now
the journal of tedious worrying
over the things my mouth touches
that my body refuses to forget,
the crumbs of tonight's numerous
snack foods and fleeting fulfillments,
two reddish pink pens issued by the school,
the stack of notebooks fingered loose,
atop the clipboard with the schedule,
curling up at the corners of each day,
the cellphone that denies the existence
of certain voices, especially
in crowded places--some think
it's a piece of crap, i think it is
just shy--the stray
hairs from last week,
the remainders of dirty jeans
rubbed all over with grimy hands,
dusty roads, the city's exhales,
exhaust, ecstasy, and i am
here, all sprawled, alone.
here: all sprawled: the camera,
the computer, the orange winter
jacket with the barely warm hood,
the handmade book that is now
the journal of tedious worrying
over the things my mouth touches
that my body refuses to forget,
the crumbs of tonight's numerous
snack foods and fleeting fulfillments,
two reddish pink pens issued by the school,
the stack of notebooks fingered loose,
atop the clipboard with the schedule,
curling up at the corners of each day,
the cellphone that denies the existence
of certain voices, especially
in crowded places--some think
it's a piece of crap, i think it is
just shy--the stray
hairs from last week,
the remainders of dirty jeans
rubbed all over with grimy hands,
dusty roads, the city's exhales,
exhaust, ecstasy, and i am
here, all sprawled, alone.
Gradiva imprisoned.
the town is down today.
the shops are closed.
in the restaurant, the wife
cooks and eats for herself
alone. and she grows fat.
when her husband comes
he will only smile. his words
are always kind. his jokes
well-padded like winter clothing.
there is protection against the cold
but when the skin thaws from the freeze
there is a moment of sharp unbearable
numbness. the pain that resides until
the feeling is lost on the nerves.
there is surrender. one adapts.
one is thankful for the sun
in this town of limited follies.
there is the daily madman
that hides until nightfall.
he waits for her then.
she does not know.
she waits for him, her
husband, who is late,
again. she eats, a spoon
to her face, slow and reflective.
she does not stop. this is all there is
to hold. this is all there is to the day.
outside is a place she cannot care for.
the husband is coming. the madman waits.
she does not know yet she is pregnant.
the shops are closed.
in the restaurant, the wife
cooks and eats for herself
alone. and she grows fat.
when her husband comes
he will only smile. his words
are always kind. his jokes
well-padded like winter clothing.
there is protection against the cold
but when the skin thaws from the freeze
there is a moment of sharp unbearable
numbness. the pain that resides until
the feeling is lost on the nerves.
there is surrender. one adapts.
one is thankful for the sun
in this town of limited follies.
there is the daily madman
that hides until nightfall.
he waits for her then.
she does not know.
she waits for him, her
husband, who is late,
again. she eats, a spoon
to her face, slow and reflective.
she does not stop. this is all there is
to hold. this is all there is to the day.
outside is a place she cannot care for.
the husband is coming. the madman waits.
she does not know yet she is pregnant.
translation.
neighboring chapters
warring in a table of contents:
the cyclical discontent droops above
the ruins. the eagle turns into the vulture.
you stare into a cereal bowl of the past
in two dimensions: a polaroid filmcard
cries dry. hollywood tears, a homecoming
of yesteryear stars, a welcoming that flows
from underneath
the rash.
nearby, the milkcow has just died.
the crippled nun stares at it
from across the way, her mind brandishing
a crown for the holy creature.
in which i see only the inside of my eyelids.
i do not like it.
you do not tell me
you are leaving.
i am not awake.
when i wake up
and you are gone
i have finally been
broken out
from a dream
suddenly alone
in a repeat
of a childhood.
my eyes are closed
and they all turn back
a memory that scares
the grown-up part.
you do not tell me
you are leaving.
i am not awake.
when i wake up
and you are gone
i have finally been
broken out
from a dream
suddenly alone
in a repeat
of a childhood.
my eyes are closed
and they all turn back
a memory that scares
the grown-up part.
the comfort of being close
so together feels like nothing
simple room temperature air
in the summer the sweat
gently sinking cotton sheets
the sun playing on curtain skin
in the winter you'd complain
so for the colic infant a blanket
and a hug to sooth the cries
a gesture often repeated
goes gently unnoticed
as fall with the leaves
drifting down
so calmly
no hurry
to reach a dying that happens
quietly life carries on without it
the comfort of being close
so together feels like nothing
simple room temperature air
in the summer the sweat
gently sinking cotton sheets
the sun playing on curtain skin
in the winter you'd complain
so for the colic infant a blanket
and a hug to sooth the cries
a gesture often repeated
goes gently unnoticed
as fall with the leaves
drifting down
so calmly
no hurry
to reach a dying that happens
quietly life carries on without it
the comfort of being close
the younger stranger on the train looks at you and you look back. you wonder if the stranger is looking at you because there's something about you, or because there's something on you. you're staring at each other when, finally, another stranger comes between your two gazes, trying to reach the designated seat as told by the ticket in hand.
she is your age. she looks normal, and is sitting as normal people tend to do. her right hand is concentrated on an object of interest on her left hand, her index and middle finger occupied by the comfortably routine task of turning a silver ring round and round.
you feel tempted to ask her about the ring she keeps in motion: the hand is running on a schedule, programmed to carry out a most unchallenging sisyphean act...not in boredom, but in waiting.
she is your age. she looks normal, and is sitting as normal people tend to do. her right hand is concentrated on an object of interest on her left hand, her index and middle finger occupied by the comfortably routine task of turning a silver ring round and round.
you feel tempted to ask her about the ring she keeps in motion: the hand is running on a schedule, programmed to carry out a most unchallenging sisyphean act...not in boredom, but in waiting.
how it began: the interim; the leftover meal.
prologue.
in the beginning there were words, so we began with words, and with words we were.
when the day came we didn't know. in place of words, an eternal waiting: from one to the other we threw a string, fishing for each other's missing parts: a hand to grasp on to, and two lips to speak. when favorite moments of the night ran blank like paper burning into smoke, a terror escaped. from the place between our ribs to the door of one of our nostrils, it tore at the air inside like a restless infant, and upon arrival was expelled by a long exhale.
...
our heads too heavy for our age say nothing for the fear but think without paying heed to the lights at the intersection which are forever green, even when yellow, even when red, even when our police car tails us with its sirens screeching: we run out from underneath the law of restraints we'd set in place and the smell of the sweets you had smelled are always delicious, because you'd never tasted. bones lost in the soft skin like any other soft skin, in any other bed, on a cloud of cigarette smoke wandering like chronic drifters in a crowded bar
we wish we could be mature about this like our parents were, when they were still married.
one day we will, and we will hate our selves for betraying us.
...
epilogue.
some nights it rained; some nights it snowed. but the lines remained so still, frozen into winter. fingers grew cold. and the words never showed.
and so the fishermen gave up their posts, and returned home to remove their boots. that night they waited for their wives' voice to melt, warmed in memories that had been frozen for too long. there was nothing else on the dinner table.
in the beginning there were words, so we began with words, and with words we were.
when the day came we didn't know. in place of words, an eternal waiting: from one to the other we threw a string, fishing for each other's missing parts: a hand to grasp on to, and two lips to speak. when favorite moments of the night ran blank like paper burning into smoke, a terror escaped. from the place between our ribs to the door of one of our nostrils, it tore at the air inside like a restless infant, and upon arrival was expelled by a long exhale.
...
our heads too heavy for our age say nothing for the fear but think without paying heed to the lights at the intersection which are forever green, even when yellow, even when red, even when our police car tails us with its sirens screeching: we run out from underneath the law of restraints we'd set in place and the smell of the sweets you had smelled are always delicious, because you'd never tasted. bones lost in the soft skin like any other soft skin, in any other bed, on a cloud of cigarette smoke wandering like chronic drifters in a crowded bar
we wish we could be mature about this like our parents were, when they were still married.
one day we will, and we will hate our selves for betraying us.
...
epilogue.
some nights it rained; some nights it snowed. but the lines remained so still, frozen into winter. fingers grew cold. and the words never showed.
and so the fishermen gave up their posts, and returned home to remove their boots. that night they waited for their wives' voice to melt, warmed in memories that had been frozen for too long. there was nothing else on the dinner table.
capture
by means of obscene moments
the slight coloring mother gave me
the birthmark i thought was gone
the picture that does not lie
the lighting that darkens and stays.
the slight coloring mother gave me
the birthmark i thought was gone
the picture that does not lie
the lighting that darkens and stays.
the heater sounds like it will explode and i'm sure one of these days it will.
at night i hear it click like the turn of a burglar lock.
in the morning it churns quietly.
the crescendo that i can't escape.
it grows and blow my hair,
invisible air rising.
the winter has come and the skies wait for the turns of weather.
today it was pink and purple in ascending order.
at night i hear it click like the turn of a burglar lock.
in the morning it churns quietly.
the crescendo that i can't escape.
it grows and blow my hair,
invisible air rising.
the winter has come and the skies wait for the turns of weather.
today it was pink and purple in ascending order.
when i woke up for the second time today
the sun sliced through
the vertical blinds
covering the window
and me in our bedroom.
childhood
and its memories
warm, golden,
and piercing.
the vertical blinds
covering the window
and me in our bedroom.
childhood
and its memories
warm, golden,
and piercing.
advice.
i have loved myself for too long
my father tells me
now is time for hate:
balance is everything:
where there is no want
go there
of that which has no pleasure
do so.
speak and follow
your own commands:
in and under,
surrounded by power.
speak and follow
your own commands:
in and under,
surrounded by power.
reason for staying in.
take off the sweater but not the feeling of the day
grabbed from the city outside and brought in like mud
dirty shoes represent
the reluctant wearer
a limp and
deflated bounce
I _____ when you are not here and i _____ constantly until i run out.
I cry sometimes and it's healthier, but healthier's not the right word.
When I _____ I don't enjoy it.
EVerything fades a little by a little until there is nothing left but the motion.
And the motion continues until I feel too sorry for myself to continue.
Or until I get sick.
I _____ when I want to stop time.
I _____ when I want to focus on the one thing that has pleasure within reach.
I _____ until the pleasure goes away and then I fall on my bed, stomach down, sad and heavy.
Some nights are worse than others.
What I _____ is good until i make it bad.
I _____ when I want to do nothing.
I _____ until I can do nothing else.
I cry sometimes and it's healthier, but healthier's not the right word.
When I _____ I don't enjoy it.
EVerything fades a little by a little until there is nothing left but the motion.
And the motion continues until I feel too sorry for myself to continue.
Or until I get sick.
I _____ when I want to stop time.
I _____ when I want to focus on the one thing that has pleasure within reach.
I _____ until the pleasure goes away and then I fall on my bed, stomach down, sad and heavy.
Some nights are worse than others.
What I _____ is good until i make it bad.
I _____ when I want to do nothing.
I _____ until I can do nothing else.
double a batteries
coming down the stairs i rock
back but not soon enough so
many missteps and moments gone
to the next level of pain hitting later
with a couple of rolling cracks
the bone begs to be left alone
and so it is. the re-injury of tonight
remembers the last time it was
hurting so badly on the field of grass
in spikes and softly tumbling down
to the surprise of others, i mean
why does she fall down so easily?
back but not soon enough so
many missteps and moments gone
to the next level of pain hitting later
with a couple of rolling cracks
the bone begs to be left alone
and so it is. the re-injury of tonight
remembers the last time it was
hurting so badly on the field of grass
in spikes and softly tumbling down
to the surprise of others, i mean
why does she fall down so easily?
chatting with melissa.
you know what
there are happy things already
i just need to hug them closer and feel them there
simply wonder
if night has overtaken day
or if day has embraced night.
their children are beautiful, glittering
seeds that burst slowly and grow
diluted across the span of distance,
a few years, some universal memories.
so many tiny drops of spilled milk,
cries unheard from too far off.
the stinkbugs struggle against their trapping.
the neighborhood cow lows.
or if day has embraced night.
their children are beautiful, glittering
seeds that burst slowly and grow
diluted across the span of distance,
a few years, some universal memories.
so many tiny drops of spilled milk,
cries unheard from too far off.
the stinkbugs struggle against their trapping.
the neighborhood cow lows.
say it right, when you find the answer
of all the women in the room the light falls
on her who stands bent at the neck and knee
falls into her tall glass of october morning fog
the question wanders away to leave the lovers
their own concerns distant from unfaithful voices
broken at the endsound of the last step off a train
on her who stands bent at the neck and knee
falls into her tall glass of october morning fog
the question wanders away to leave the lovers
their own concerns distant from unfaithful voices
broken at the endsound of the last step off a train
curveball.
charms of everyday living:
waking up at the sounding
bells on record, echoing
repeats of their own
repeating letters of exchange
thrown off of mountainsides
carrying questions you've had
for a while, now you look for it:
the sounds of falling answer you
if there are any stars
the sky is happy at night,
and if there is none at all
it will wait for the day after.
waking up at the sounding
bells on record, echoing
repeats of their own
repeating letters of exchange
thrown off of mountainsides
carrying questions you've had
for a while, now you look for it:
the sounds of falling answer you
if there are any stars
the sky is happy at night,
and if there is none at all
it will wait for the day after.
thursday. dirty unused tissues collect dust bunnies on the floor.
i have moved off the page and there is no excuse for my absence.
two or three persimmon pits lodged in between the heart
and spine, feels the pulse of the afternoon drums played
by a child's grimy hands stinking of eggs left out to rot,
what a waste. what a waste of pen on paper and colors
bleeding through the marker tip, sucking
every last bit of disintegrating chalk
falling down like snowflakes on a pretty day,
dandruff on a bad day, or dead skin cells,
dead silence, just chalk dust. disinterest, it is
never as good as you think it'd be, never
as bad as you thought it was, feet stomping down
right before the next steps fall, clock work rhythm,
fine and functional, though not ideal. manmade patterns
break and convene, move like an ant puddle
feasting on the street spilling sweet refuse.
two or three persimmon pits lodged in between the heart
and spine, feels the pulse of the afternoon drums played
by a child's grimy hands stinking of eggs left out to rot,
what a waste. what a waste of pen on paper and colors
bleeding through the marker tip, sucking
every last bit of disintegrating chalk
falling down like snowflakes on a pretty day,
dandruff on a bad day, or dead skin cells,
dead silence, just chalk dust. disinterest, it is
never as good as you think it'd be, never
as bad as you thought it was, feet stomping down
right before the next steps fall, clock work rhythm,
fine and functional, though not ideal. manmade patterns
break and convene, move like an ant puddle
feasting on the street spilling sweet refuse.
i am a boy
and i am a liar
of all the things
my mother is my world
she is beautiful
she is faint
of all the things
she is my world
i am a girl
and i am a liar
there is nothing
i have not seen
today it rains
tomorrow it shines
so over and around
i turn and turn
what have you done
to make it stop
there is nothing
i have not seen
i am your mother
faint, beautiful, world
a question unanswered
yellowing away.
and i am a liar
of all the things
my mother is my world
she is beautiful
she is faint
of all the things
she is my world
i am a girl
and i am a liar
there is nothing
i have not seen
today it rains
tomorrow it shines
so over and around
i turn and turn
what have you done
to make it stop
there is nothing
i have not seen
i am your mother
faint, beautiful, world
a question unanswered
yellowing away.
until happy.
seriously tried once
to think about the kitchen,
the pantry, and all its bottles
rattling their insides.
baby wants to know how
she came awake,
pushed from the warm
sleep of an eternal love.
she grew into her water
and there she flailed,
head heaved above the line,
afraid to drown.
baby's sore neck clenched
from swimming, the water
coloring her chlorine lips,
sogging limbs confused,
trying to figure out
how to change properly
an inhale for an exhale
without choking in air.
baby rattles her head
sometimes, to hear
the world is going
blindly bumbles
with the sounds preceding
the cries: that of a creaking bed,
oddly paced footsteps during the day,
and at night again, the death of a lightbulb.
baby would like to know
how many books
how many lovers
how many bottles
in a happy year,
if, holding all things
constant, the people never change,
and the questions laid to rest,
to reach and
cradle steady
your self, then
someone else's.
baby sees the other lost
bodies trying in the winter,
to find their own
warmer waters
but she knows what it is
is hot ginger soup from a bowl,
melting down the lonely tongue,
sweating it mutely out in bed.
to think about the kitchen,
the pantry, and all its bottles
rattling their insides.
baby wants to know how
she came awake,
pushed from the warm
sleep of an eternal love.
she grew into her water
and there she flailed,
head heaved above the line,
afraid to drown.
baby's sore neck clenched
from swimming, the water
coloring her chlorine lips,
sogging limbs confused,
trying to figure out
how to change properly
an inhale for an exhale
without choking in air.
baby rattles her head
sometimes, to hear
the world is going
blindly bumbles
with the sounds preceding
the cries: that of a creaking bed,
oddly paced footsteps during the day,
and at night again, the death of a lightbulb.
baby would like to know
how many books
how many lovers
how many bottles
in a happy year,
if, holding all things
constant, the people never change,
and the questions laid to rest,
to reach and
cradle steady
your self, then
someone else's.
baby sees the other lost
bodies trying in the winter,
to find their own
warmer waters
but she knows what it is
is hot ginger soup from a bowl,
melting down the lonely tongue,
sweating it mutely out in bed.
window panes.
cried looking at mother's aging face
her sunspots dark with age
lips open
lips retreating
every bug i trap here dies
and for every one
a little more pain
their corpses litter
the new wooden floors
panel after panel
of growing old
babies at their parents'
funerals.
her sunspots dark with age
lips open
lips retreating
every bug i trap here dies
and for every one
a little more pain
their corpses litter
the new wooden floors
panel after panel
of growing old
babies at their parents'
funerals.
picture from early august.
midsummer
her hair a tamed
mess the fire
his hand and hers
mixture of eyes
fire lights
her temperate face
biting stars
swallowing words
on her wrist
his warm beer spilling
the ground is cooling
the moon is coming
behind the clouds
taller trees than dreams
from the shadows
climb the souls.
her hair a tamed
mess the fire
his hand and hers
mixture of eyes
fire lights
her temperate face
biting stars
swallowing words
on her wrist
his warm beer spilling
the ground is cooling
the moon is coming
behind the clouds
taller trees than dreams
from the shadows
climb the souls.
full belly of disgrace
wishes to run fast
past the boys
grabs and jeers
pigtails go on pigs
and ponies are made to break
short legs wear down
at the heel of two long days
weeks go off the bridge
fire would be born in water
had the river lived through the drought
if i let them burn me
would i be a good girl?
wishes to run fast
past the boys
grabs and jeers
pigtails go on pigs
and ponies are made to break
short legs wear down
at the heel of two long days
weeks go off the bridge
fire would be born in water
had the river lived through the drought
if i let them burn me
would i be a good girl?
i saw one taller than the rest
burning high to crumble down
beneath them all i stand to know
which princess today will be
in the carriage she sits upright
glassy eyes and soft taint lips
her hair and neck and bones all clear
her dress a curtain stained with rose
down the road the horses pulled
running the whip screams the mane
the rocks beat dust and the dust beats on
one fatal bump and the princess falls down
her hair and neck and bones all clear
her dress a curtain stained with rose.
burning high to crumble down
beneath them all i stand to know
which princess today will be
in the carriage she sits upright
glassy eyes and soft taint lips
her hair and neck and bones all clear
her dress a curtain stained with rose
down the road the horses pulled
running the whip screams the mane
the rocks beat dust and the dust beats on
one fatal bump and the princess falls down
her hair and neck and bones all clear
her dress a curtain stained with rose.
1.
forgetting last week like you forgot the past
3.
5.
forgetting last week like you forgot the past
two decades of life like two wet socks
from yesterday's downpour washing clean
the streets splashing traffic on your skin
2.
from high above the flooding puddles
second looks plop down
a landscape of eyes
wide and shot blank
2.
from high above the flooding puddles
second looks plop down
a landscape of eyes
wide and shot blank
in the face of strangers
reflecting us
3.
we are something of the glass variety
kept behind the local display of the familiar
novelties sold on corners
half-priced with bad weather
4.
we sleep on our shoulders
at odd angles and hours
kept behind the local display of the familiar
novelties sold on corners
half-priced with bad weather
4.
we sleep on our shoulders
at odd angles and hours
all heads and necks creased
and tucked in secret at night
and tucked in secret at night
5.
at night we slipped to escape the glass
the glass fell through to the floor
floored between a thousand gaping hands
hands all with their eyes closed
closed for the evening of nightmares
nightmares and dreams
6.
the elevator carries up broken mirrors
and disabled hands come down
detached at the waist
then rejoined in bed
7.
a neonlit child calls.
her lost shadows form an assembly line
out under the dim red cross,
the echoes of her mother,
a mother,
no mother.
(she will learn how to share
all things good in time)
8.
in departure there is return
9.
to the caged monkey
i will sing
10.
full belly, full moon,
go sliver by sliver,
she left us
all alone
in a land of strangers
stranger than we,
no belly, no moon
to walk by tonight,
no belly, no moon
warm dark to cold light.
nightmares and dreams
6.
the elevator carries up broken mirrors
and disabled hands come down
detached at the waist
then rejoined in bed
7.
a neonlit child calls.
her lost shadows form an assembly line
out under the dim red cross,
the echoes of her mother,
a mother,
no mother.
(she will learn how to share
all things good in time)
8.
in departure there is return
9.
to the caged monkey
i will sing
10.
full belly, full moon,
go sliver by sliver,
she left us
all alone
in a land of strangers
stranger than we,
no belly, no moon
to walk by tonight,
no belly, no moon
warm dark to cold light.
mama spider catches her web
her babies are on the way
she goes up
she goes down
trailblazing through
the window dust
she is a tired body today
her babies are waiting
the dust is waiting
the window is waiting
the sky puts on the mountains
a gray raincoat
then mama spider shakes
climbing up the glassy slope.
her babies are on the way
she goes up
she goes down
trailblazing through
the window dust
she is a tired body today
her babies are waiting
the dust is waiting
the window is waiting
the sky puts on the mountains
a gray raincoat
then mama spider shakes
climbing up the glassy slope.
change of pictures, change of people, change of place, and story, and feelings, and love, it just doesn't ever stay the same as when we left that sidewalk under the lights on, lights off, weird cats, tall trees, bright minds, dark rooms, a bare bed, i washed the semester-long grime and hoped the next time the glasses clinked, you'd remember who it was that night.
backwards meaning.
i like wearing shirts backwards.
does this have any significance?
probably not.
will i assign it one?
yes.
does this have any significance?
probably not.
will i assign it one?
yes.
and who can you love if they are dying all the time?
the crises of yesterday are stomped on by the crises of today, but they fight hard for breath and kicking space.
obsession finds those with too much wasted time and what if i wonder about the weather where i don't live anymore or rather
never lived
is that a crime?
or just freakish behavior
i found what they said long ago to be true but
it was too long ago for me to remember its significance so now i have to learn on my own
for myself and this obsession
with knowing and having always already caught the answer in one hand and dismantling with the other well
what do you say to someone who knows everything
and what do you say to someone who thinks she knows everything
and are you any different?
that is the question you keep asking yourself because
really are you any different?
whatever the answer, you begin to calm down a little
the hardest question has been laid on the table now
but it is not painless
self-interrogation
the hands in your head fiddle absent-mindedly and manages to touch nothing but nerves
a drawn-out affair to take place preferably in front of the mirror, but if you are too lazy, like i am, right here will be fine.
first, how often does the object of obsession cross your mind?
second, elaborate.
you know you want to.
like, how hard do you try to cross it out of your mind or do you embrace it and write about it or try?
so third, is this helping at all and if not what will you do afterward to jolt yourself out of this daze
if only that fan were working, the room would be much cooler and the plants might look happier for once
empty applications and cards of identification are lying
all over the place
hair begins to shine & grow faster, thicker,
as promised in shampoo commercials
but in your dreams they take over the rest of your body
and you lose all of your friends
what good is proof of identification if you are
constantly changing, and God,
that is an ugly picture with your face on it,
wonder if you can change it this time?
.
obsession finds those with too much wasted time and what if i wonder about the weather where i don't live anymore or rather
never lived
is that a crime?
or just freakish behavior
i found what they said long ago to be true but
it was too long ago for me to remember its significance so now i have to learn on my own
for myself and this obsession
with knowing and having always already caught the answer in one hand and dismantling with the other well
what do you say to someone who knows everything
and what do you say to someone who thinks she knows everything
and are you any different?
that is the question you keep asking yourself because
really are you any different?
whatever the answer, you begin to calm down a little
the hardest question has been laid on the table now
but it is not painless
self-interrogation
the hands in your head fiddle absent-mindedly and manages to touch nothing but nerves
a drawn-out affair to take place preferably in front of the mirror, but if you are too lazy, like i am, right here will be fine.
first, how often does the object of obsession cross your mind?
second, elaborate.
you know you want to.
like, how hard do you try to cross it out of your mind or do you embrace it and write about it or try?
so third, is this helping at all and if not what will you do afterward to jolt yourself out of this daze
if only that fan were working, the room would be much cooler and the plants might look happier for once
empty applications and cards of identification are lying
all over the place
hair begins to shine & grow faster, thicker,
as promised in shampoo commercials
but in your dreams they take over the rest of your body
and you lose all of your friends
what good is proof of identification if you are
constantly changing, and God,
that is an ugly picture with your face on it,
wonder if you can change it this time?
.
on dad's birthday, but not about dad; replaceable years.
watermelon juice
distracted hands
dripping the sink
running water
run the bill
wonder if electricity
can kill down here
get some soap
rub it in
wash the grease
pull the plug
watch it drain
down the hole
take the trash
wash it down
cut the rind
smash it up
call me
crazy summer's
too hot
walk the distance
walk it back
repeat
i quit
i quit
but maybe just one
more, what's another
june then july
then i am just one month
in a string of all the rest.
distracted hands
dripping the sink
running water
run the bill
wonder if electricity
can kill down here
get some soap
rub it in
wash the grease
pull the plug
watch it drain
down the hole
take the trash
wash it down
cut the rind
smash it up
call me
crazy summer's
too hot
walk the distance
walk it back
repeat
i quit
i quit
but maybe just one
more, what's another
june then july
then i am just one month
in a string of all the rest.
helpless cats.
you do not like poems
which is good
because i cannot write poems
(though this is far worse).
you call for me this time,
but i am impossible now
and words just won't do,
not when the cat's gone
missing.
what have we tonight?
there is no one to fight with
and the couch is all yours.
suddenly, no one wants
to sit there alone.
you will wait. you will
wait until the cat comes
back through the back door
(do you have a back door
for the cat?) because that
will set your day in place
again. routine places,
routine bodies, all present
when the sun rises in the morning,
as it travels to the other side,
and when it disappears
again. you will wait,
awake or asleep,
until the morning.
you know it will come back.
.
which is good
because i cannot write poems
(though this is far worse).
you call for me this time,
but i am impossible now
and words just won't do,
not when the cat's gone
missing.
what have we tonight?
there is no one to fight with
and the couch is all yours.
suddenly, no one wants
to sit there alone.
you will wait. you will
wait until the cat comes
back through the back door
(do you have a back door
for the cat?) because that
will set your day in place
again. routine places,
routine bodies, all present
when the sun rises in the morning,
as it travels to the other side,
and when it disappears
again. you will wait,
awake or asleep,
until the morning.
you know it will come back.
.
torrefying.
my life repeats
every four years
by then my ground
has gone, has come
and from inside
exists another
voice of mine, new
but already old
by this time
when we start again
step into the water
when i have to
waiting for its temper
to rise match my skin
but my skin never stays on
the water coming down
chanting my bites of the day
spitting my father's
disapproval in my face
the echoes of the new
echoes of the old
already my voice.
every four years
by then my ground
has gone, has come
and from inside
exists another
voice of mine, new
but already old
by this time
when we start again
step into the water
when i have to
waiting for its temper
to rise match my skin
but my skin never stays on
the water coming down
chanting my bites of the day
spitting my father's
disapproval in my face
the echoes of the new
echoes of the old
already my voice.
my toes are numb and so
i can't feel where i'm walking now
though sometimes
that is more than i'd need to know
my hair looks especially good tonight
after a shower and some cheap shampoo
my father bought some months ago
on sale
the bottle says it's supposed to smell
like kiwis, and it looks green
like kiwis, and it looks green
like kiwis, straight out of a nice hot shower.
i can't feel where i'm walking now
though sometimes
that is more than i'd need to know
my hair looks especially good tonight
after a shower and some cheap shampoo
my father bought some months ago
on sale
the bottle says it's supposed to smell
like kiwis, and it looks green
like kiwis, and it looks green
like kiwis, straight out of a nice hot shower.
and it's awful.
she says to me
i never feel hungry anymore
and it's awful
how these cells
pullulate & break her
softened borders, hiding her
bones underneath these days,
burying them long & deep like a worried dog
i never feel hungry anymore
and it's awful
how these cells
pullulate & break her
softened borders, hiding her
bones underneath these days,
burying them long & deep like a worried dog
(what else can you do with/the change in your hands?)
the animals dream of human lovemaking
themselves, actors
in a gentle wave of curiosity
as if this were not their nature
and all the uncertainties of a child
still present, in the way the bodies
morph into one another
like carnival dancers engaged
in a magical warfare, for entertainment
purposes, only, taking
unknown steps in the blue
crossing over the yellow twilight,
who wishes it might be
another color tonight,
for it has heard people say,
pink is the more beautiful...
at this hour, you can hear music,
and the elephants' stomping affirms
your reality, the last blaring roars
from a starving tiger's mouth,
shakes the cage that contains
all the faces that can be seen:
all who are dressed like kings
and his many unhappy queens,
flanked sparsely by angels here
and there, fallen to be lowly
ladies in waiting
with crowding tangles for hair,
and for wings, gaudy pieces
that tatter and fly away in the wind.
it is a patchwork playground
with plastic flowers painted in
a hidden corner of the camp,
which she picks from the floor and plants
in her head in the yellowing light,
this carnival dancer
will twirl for you, for a time,
in place; at the end
of her last revolution,
she will turn to you to say
and for the right price,
it can all be bought.
[draft]
themselves, actors
in a gentle wave of curiosity
as if this were not their nature
and all the uncertainties of a child
still present, in the way the bodies
morph into one another
like carnival dancers engaged
in a magical warfare, for entertainment
purposes, only, taking
unknown steps in the blue
crossing over the yellow twilight,
who wishes it might be
another color tonight,
for it has heard people say,
pink is the more beautiful...
at this hour, you can hear music,
and the elephants' stomping affirms
your reality, the last blaring roars
from a starving tiger's mouth,
shakes the cage that contains
all the faces that can be seen:
all who are dressed like kings
and his many unhappy queens,
flanked sparsely by angels here
and there, fallen to be lowly
ladies in waiting
with crowding tangles for hair,
and for wings, gaudy pieces
that tatter and fly away in the wind.
it is a patchwork playground
with plastic flowers painted in
a hidden corner of the camp,
which she picks from the floor and plants
in her head in the yellowing light,
this carnival dancer
will twirl for you, for a time,
in place; at the end
of her last revolution,
she will turn to you to say
and for the right price,
it can all be bought.
[draft]
from that country/when things don't stay
her clear eyes sent from your homeland
it is vacation and a child's day
and her a child's face, a child's hair
clipped in place by a jeweled clutch
a child's smile is there
and so she plays to record the moments
in which you see, behind the fading colors,
yourself loving her more and more
in my absence, i grow
less fond but fatter, a single
but broken piece
of sponge, full of holes
dirty from use, soaking up
the splatters from the kitchen
counter, moved by an aging
hand i can no longer
recognize, nor do i care to, now--
it does not matter,
today, anymore.
.
it is vacation and a child's day
and her a child's face, a child's hair
clipped in place by a jeweled clutch
a child's smile is there
and so she plays to record the moments
in which you see, behind the fading colors,
yourself loving her more and more
in my absence, i grow
less fond but fatter, a single
but broken piece
of sponge, full of holes
dirty from use, soaking up
the splatters from the kitchen
counter, moved by an aging
hand i can no longer
recognize, nor do i care to, now--
it does not matter,
today, anymore.
.
in response to sarah's notepoem.
(and the second hand drums on your right temple, the minute hand on your left, until all you can do is invent word after word out of a set of letters not of your own choosing.)
to retreat to the comforts of being
soft to the touch like a plum in august
dark and tanned to its purpling nature
ripe to its boundaries now
too bodied to be like the rest
at the stand by the roadside
it waits--
will you stop and choose
the perfect one for today
or will it go on and rot
until purple turns to black,
fresh to freshly carcassed?
soft to the touch like a plum in august
dark and tanned to its purpling nature
ripe to its boundaries now
too bodied to be like the rest
at the stand by the roadside
it waits--
will you stop and choose
the perfect one for today
or will it go on and rot
until purple turns to black,
fresh to freshly carcassed?
some words of things on the way back home
strawberry nuzzle
resistance and the hollow
after the first big bite
grotesquely creamed
skies spilled
and curdled sweet
resistance and the hollow
after the first big bite
grotesquely creamed
skies spilled
and curdled sweet
burning down to the puddle of leftover rainwater trashed by the footsteps of the main street outside our vacant door
dirty pants and wet shoes trailing you all day long
you hate me for taking you along this road
you knew this would happen
i knew too
wishing for better weather
i took you along
and you came along
and who to blame between the two of us
and our bickering silenced by the passing buses
their fumes choking the clouds heavy and grey
everything wants to explode as we step splashing into deeper puddles
we grow shorter
down this road where we loved to stroll
we trip in new uncomfortable shoes
rubbing it raw in the same old spots
dirty pants and wet shoes trailing you all day long
you hate me for taking you along this road
you knew this would happen
i knew too
wishing for better weather
i took you along
and you came along
and who to blame between the two of us
and our bickering silenced by the passing buses
their fumes choking the clouds heavy and grey
everything wants to explode as we step splashing into deeper puddles
we grow shorter
down this road where we loved to stroll
we trip in new uncomfortable shoes
rubbing it raw in the same old spots
jailbreak
in search of happier prisons
your name is one out
of twenty-six in a bag
you play falling asleep
hands in the drying air
chapped in heavy summer
epileptic words dropping down
smashing glasslike sheets of
stranger feelings like
i don't know you well enough to say this but
sometimes i understand you better than God does
which words were the last i would speak to you
and which would i have chosen had it been
snowing in the afternoon or blow by blow through
our hair the wind of a last Sunday together
and which would i have whispered still
under that dimming yellow coffee light
if you gave me permission to stay i would
have told your fortune better than God
*
slow rain down
the walls cave
in falling time
now every piece puddles around you
loves you, loves you
i would tell you only this.
your name is one out
of twenty-six in a bag
you play falling asleep
hands in the drying air
chapped in heavy summer
epileptic words dropping down
smashing glasslike sheets of
stranger feelings like
i don't know you well enough to say this but
sometimes i understand you better than God does
which words were the last i would speak to you
and which would i have chosen had it been
snowing in the afternoon or blow by blow through
our hair the wind of a last Sunday together
and which would i have whispered still
under that dimming yellow coffee light
if you gave me permission to stay i would
have told your fortune better than God
*
slow rain down
the walls cave
in falling time
now every piece puddles around you
loves you, loves you
i would tell you only this.
in a suicidal mood.
remember the smell of fresh
crushed carcasses of grass bodies
clearly wet with morning cries
tears slathered on my toes
the smell of intrusion marks me
cut here along these lines
bruises all over
bleeding dirty watercolors
to cross each other's
boundaries.
crushed carcasses of grass bodies
clearly wet with morning cries
tears slathered on my toes
the smell of intrusion marks me
cut here along these lines
bruises all over
bleeding dirty watercolors
to cross each other's
boundaries.
eating all this sugar coated in fire
made me scream out little
well-known secrets like
your name to the sky
sent up to the clouds to sleep
like cavities
growing on my teeth.
i will ignore the distance.
i will pretend to know
what the clouds are thinking
tonight as we shout through sticky lips
all of this as our throats buckle,
once, twice, again--
they are thinking
what a sad world
it would be, if
there were no stars
in the day, if
these sparkles
ever were
to go out and fade.
made me scream out little
well-known secrets like
your name to the sky
sent up to the clouds to sleep
like cavities
growing on my teeth.
i will ignore the distance.
i will pretend to know
what the clouds are thinking
tonight as we shout through sticky lips
all of this as our throats buckle,
once, twice, again--
they are thinking
what a sad world
it would be, if
there were no stars
in the day, if
these sparkles
ever were
to go out and fade.
cleaning, packing, detach.
time to pull and reel the fishing rod back now. let's
call it a day.
let's take the poetry down
from the walls.
let's throw out those cards
illegibly signed from long ago.
those paper plates and bowls
with your name at the top
"The sweetest SIDEKICK AWARD
so supportive,
"so spacey...
what would we do without you?
"FALL 2007"
"The light of our lives
(and the light of our light side)
"spring 2008"
"COLD
BLOODED
MOFO
Fall 2008"
"the rainbow
brite award
"for being the person
that we'd least
"like to find
rainbowed...
"s
p
r
i
n
g
2
0
0
9"
and here are some words
i wrote before
no, please
it's an honor to kiss
your feet now
echoes of your tickling laughter screams
won't you follow me now
that you can't
leaves i'll let fall on you
your last sounds
muffled in the layers
of dead things
then
fear of [there is a hole] infinity
[in the paper here]
matter/antimatter
poets don't know anything
we can only live to
120 years.
the last time i saw a
rooster it didn't
cross the street.
you cannot erase me now
bug bites--constellations
on her legs
then
the opposite
of water is
certainty or
safety
a fearless steadiness
in the too hot embrace
of life,
love
without even trying
to hold it all together.
then
it's always
nice to think
about spring
she says
the cars refuse to listen
heavy zooms
heavy mute.
in the park
we grow old
it's fall now.
dry leaves lightly
sink
into gravel
then
the names of places
i wanted to go to on friday
then
her head
on a puppet string
up and down like
a doll's dance gone wrong
he turns
hoping to speak after
catching her eye &
attention
but really, it's late
again
she's gone
in new york
then
these are going
into the trash bag.
call it a day.
let's take the poetry down
from the walls.
let's throw out those cards
illegibly signed from long ago.
those paper plates and bowls
with your name at the top
"The sweetest SIDEKICK AWARD
so supportive,
"so spacey...
what would we do without you?
"FALL 2007"
"The light of our lives
(and the light of our light side)
"spring 2008"
"COLD
BLOODED
MOFO
Fall 2008"
"the rainbow
brite award
"for being the person
that we'd least
"like to find
rainbowed...
"s
p
r
i
n
g
2
0
0
9"
and here are some words
i wrote before
no, please
it's an honor to kiss
your feet now
echoes of your tickling laughter screams
won't you follow me now
that you can't
leaves i'll let fall on you
your last sounds
muffled in the layers
of dead things
then
fear of [there is a hole] infinity
[in the paper here]
matter/antimatter
poets don't know anything
we can only live to
120 years.
the last time i saw a
rooster it didn't
cross the street.
you cannot erase me now
bug bites--constellations
on her legs
then
the opposite
of water is
certainty or
safety
a fearless steadiness
in the too hot embrace
of life,
love
without even trying
to hold it all together.
then
it's always
nice to think
about spring
she says
the cars refuse to listen
heavy zooms
heavy mute.
in the park
we grow old
it's fall now.
dry leaves lightly
sink
into gravel
then
the names of places
i wanted to go to on friday
then
her head
on a puppet string
up and down like
a doll's dance gone wrong
he turns
hoping to speak after
catching her eye &
attention
but really, it's late
again
she's gone
in new york
then
these are going
into the trash bag.
from "Five Psalms" by mark jarman
"Excuse the absence
That feels like presence,
Then excuse the feeling
That insists on presence."
(i do.)
hopping with gashes down their sides
hopped in and fell down
to the missing squares
holding missing faces
you know
when the wind sweeps
by, between, i
hush because
it's cold
and on my right
red ink hand, i write
growing up
means not knowing
if i should
cry
any
more
(i do)
and it's all dull,
dull from here
on out
stubble
stubble
stumbling blocks
fear it is
some everything
these days i never
knew you well
enough to know
now what
your silence means
hopped in and fell down
to the missing squares
holding missing faces
you know
when the wind sweeps
by, between, i
hush because
it's cold
and on my right
red ink hand, i write
growing up
means not knowing
if i should
cry
any
more
(i do)
and it's all dull,
dull from here
on out
stubble
stubble
stumbling blocks
fear it is
some everything
these days i never
knew you well
enough to know
now what
your silence means
confessions, fears, future like a train ride, past like scenery
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173374
(i never paid attention to our shadows. but did we have any?)
______
i really liked your black linen shirt.
______
i wanted to kiss your left hand and that spot between your eyes
when you played and sang.
______
______
(i never paid attention to our shadows. but did we have any?)
______
i really liked your black linen shirt.
______
i wanted to kiss your left hand and that spot between your eyes
when you played and sang.
______
______
green mark for beer
stout on my hand
i dislike the taste
tergiversate
have i
upset you?
have i
upset you?
i wish you weren't
so quiet when i can't
see you.
______
______
baby, i scare all the little kids now.
so quiet when i can't
see you.
______
______
baby, i scare all the little kids now.
______
essay
on the individual love exploding into everything
a sort of blindness and continually blinding process
until your eyes change and see only love
into everything that hate becomes heated
into everything that pain dissolves
into all that there is to hold around you
shaking in your hands that feeling
digging into the barrier of your skin
there is no defense
he is everyman and more than every man
from the body to where you cannot touch
the soul has escaped
and we wait
the night, the day,
the details we've already begun
to question.
a sort of blindness and continually blinding process
until your eyes change and see only love
into everything that hate becomes heated
into everything that pain dissolves
into all that there is to hold around you
shaking in your hands that feeling
digging into the barrier of your skin
there is no defense
he is everyman and more than every man
from the body to where you cannot touch
the soul has escaped
and we wait
the night, the day,
the details we've already begun
to question.
there is big rain, small rain,
soft dots and harsh claps,
from the graying clouds,
in the sun,
there is light,
then there are people
running in the rain,
spreading their skin
stretching their fingertips out
towards the ends of the streets,
or beyond the streets,
the train station,
the first car in front,
the next stop,
the city that lies
barely within reach
from this 4-year town.
big rain, small rain,
strong and sunny
sunday rain.
(we made them all.)
soft dots and harsh claps,
from the graying clouds,
in the sun,
there is light,
then there are people
running in the rain,
spreading their skin
stretching their fingertips out
towards the ends of the streets,
or beyond the streets,
the train station,
the first car in front,
the next stop,
the city that lies
barely within reach
from this 4-year town.
big rain, small rain,
strong and sunny
sunday rain.
(we made them all.)
smell
burnt sugar
pastry sweet
last night at 3
quiet soap
plastic faint
today at 7
night ends
sky rolls.
pastry sweet
last night at 3
quiet soap
plastic faint
today at 7
night ends
sky rolls.
(smelling like) sweet sucralose [lauren's prompt, modified.]
here are some pillows for your head,
i said, do you want to be alone?
said you want to be
outside the moon,
the clouds roll by,
and the eyes roll back
here the pillows,
here my pillows,
soft like
distant howls
of the wolves,
and men,
the wind is
shunned
by the windows.
this is just
for fun
and
with one arm sliding
down and across,
tracing
the pathways
of a sunday
puzzle
the blank that follows
this is what you would say
to an ex-significant other
and he kisses me
right here
on my left cheek
while i think
do i dare give him
the right one too?
then his hands,
his hands
howling in the distance...
the wind sneaks in,
the window is broken.
i said, do you want to be alone?
said you want to be
outside the moon,
the clouds roll by,
and the eyes roll back
here the pillows,
here my pillows,
soft like
distant howls
of the wolves,
and men,
the wind is
shunned
by the windows.
this is just
for fun
and
with one arm sliding
down and across,
tracing
the pathways
of a sunday
puzzle
the blank that follows
this is what you would say
to an ex-significant other
and he kisses me
right here
on my left cheek
while i think
do i dare give him
the right one too?
then his hands,
his hands
howling in the distance...
the wind sneaks in,
the window is broken.
then, from last night.
aftertaste
i didn't stop the song in time
i didn't stop the song in time
smelling my hand smelling like yours
i wait for your name to go off screen
you
greco roman
a moving body of fallen stone
on the couching chair
what will you say now
that you are angry at the gods
in pain with the world
what with the light turning on
then off
what with the voices inside
and out
and what about those hands that hang on
that curve that bend that hides
future traffic, soon enough
on lonely streets at night when the moon appears
from behind the haze, observing the stars through
the rolling sky
then, from last night.
what with the light turning on
then off
what with the voices inside
and out
and what about those hands that hang on
that curve that bend that hides
future traffic, soon enough
on lonely streets at night when the moon appears
from behind the haze, observing the stars through
the rolling sky
then, from last night.
how quickly
opens the door
the handle drops down
the push comes
the hands separate
how quickly
it begins and ends.
the handle drops down
the push comes
the hands separate
how quickly
it begins and ends.
children, children in a dream
to the child in my life:
how would you like me
to tell you below the porch steps
i worry when you say nothing
there is always something crouching
waiting to be said or screamed
or whispered and kissed
i murmured closer to you
i have dreamed you
for two days in a row
and the dreams were silent.
how would you like me
to tell you below the porch steps
i worry when you say nothing
there is always something crouching
waiting to be said or screamed
or whispered and kissed
i murmured closer to you
i have dreamed you
for two days in a row
and the dreams were silent.
crazy dreams on only [less than] 8 hours of sleep.
(but only because i went back to sleep again. they always happen the second time around.)
you and i and my professor in bed. only bad things can happen from there.
you and i and my professor in bed. only bad things can happen from there.
100 words.
i do things that you do not
lick fire off my fingers
pick the lint off my face
i do them every day
watch it burning all my prints
satisfied with the loss
of whatever they told me
i am
peel my skin
to find out how old
i am today
grow and regrow
without end
i am not so old
that i have forgotten
what i might
have forgotten
though i might not remember
the breakdown of
a single
inhale
i count
my last words are these
my last words are always
the same
i do this every day.
lick fire off my fingers
pick the lint off my face
i do them every day
watch it burning all my prints
satisfied with the loss
of whatever they told me
i am
peel my skin
to find out how old
i am today
grow and regrow
without end
i am not so old
that i have forgotten
what i might
have forgotten
though i might not remember
the breakdown of
a single
inhale
i count
my last words are these
my last words are always
the same
i do this every day.
cold things.
tonight, when i'm in
the shower before it gets hot
walking in the direction
the clouds are floating in
in my dad's old silk shirt
faded green and white
thin jail stripes
think of his death
which hasn't happened yet
but will someday
think of how cold it is
and how warm it was
this morning
when i was already clean.
the shower before it gets hot
walking in the direction
the clouds are floating in
in my dad's old silk shirt
faded green and white
thin jail stripes
think of his death
which hasn't happened yet
but will someday
think of how cold it is
and how warm it was
this morning
when i was already clean.
behind the red marijuana moon
a trash bag makes love to a tree
branching out beyond its plastic
boundaries, bobbing up and down
what can you do
on nights like these
when the wind tickles
your hair growing out
the dandelions are gossiping
and the sky looks smashed
and no one cares about you
or how you bruised your toe
no wonder you feel so lonely
but really, you just need a kiss
from the nearest drunk person
whispering to you about how
today, nothing really matters
either way you go.
a trash bag makes love to a tree
branching out beyond its plastic
boundaries, bobbing up and down
what can you do
on nights like these
when the wind tickles
your hair growing out
the dandelions are gossiping
and the sky looks smashed
and no one cares about you
or how you bruised your toe
no wonder you feel so lonely
but really, you just need a kiss
from the nearest drunk person
whispering to you about how
today, nothing really matters
either way you go.
on narcissism.
sarah asks
and i say
because that's almost all i am
derrida--and i don't even pretend to understand his theories--but i think he says this--says that all love is really essentially narcissism
and i think that's true
and i love the idea of love
so i love the idea of narcissism
the idea of loving others through loving the self
and loving the self through loving others
reflective.
echoes.
i like these things.
then
twelve minutes later
"oh my God my head hurts"
and i say
because that's almost all i am
derrida--and i don't even pretend to understand his theories--but i think he says this--says that all love is really essentially narcissism
and i think that's true
and i love the idea of love
so i love the idea of narcissism
the idea of loving others through loving the self
and loving the self through loving others
reflective.
echoes.
i like these things.
then
twelve minutes later
"oh my God my head hurts"
afternoon dream.
instead of going to her office to discuss what she thought of me, i slept in.
i can do it next tuesday, if i wanted to.
i delayed my alarm soundings one by one, jolted awake each time, annoyed by myself:
how little i knew of myself. or, maybe, how much i rebelled against my knowledge of myself every day, refusing to accept the ways in which i work, setting up earlier alarms than i would ever follow.
in the two hours of my thursday afternoon nap, i dreamed. and of all the scenarios i dreamed, i can only remember the last few seconds of it now.
saying goodbye to a friend, we were going home. we were in new york. i thought you were leaving for philadelphia to return for the semester (this dream backtracked two weeks from reality time), with me, but you weren't. you wanted to stay in new york, to extern a bit longer than the usual week. (even though, thinking about it now, the time frames don't make sense). you externed at a famous law firm. i didn't. i felt defeated, both at my diluted career aspiration, and at the thought of losing my travel companion.
and what was more, i think we were in a relationship in my dream. and the feeling i felt when you chose your job over me...
so i bought my ticket to stay in new york. there was no reason to go back to philadelphia so early, anyway. when i last went back to school earlier than was necessary, i felt lonely, depressed, worthless. (again, though, that early return "last" time took place two weeks ago in reality time. so maybe i traveled forth in time in dream). i bought my ticket to go home to my parents, which meant really no ticket at all, because my parents live in new york and we were still in new york, and i had my metrocard--and that was all i needed.
i walked with you away from the ticket booth and towards the spiral stairs that would lead us down to the station platforms, and as we were stepping down, i played my fingers against yours. because our hands weren't holding each other. because i wanted to be closer. because i wanted you to recognize my presence. acknowledge me. play with me.
love with me.
i wanted to confirm that you were not annoyed by me. because i am always afraid that you are annoyed by me.
your fingers gave me a response--weak, soft, their attention restrained, barely there. but it was a response nonetheless. i guess i was contented.
then, as we reached the bottom of the stairs, the end of the spiral led us to your sudden agitation at something on the floor. another person to my left gasped and was trying to say something...and so were you...and i can't remember now, but maybe you tried to pull me to the side, or pull me down, towards where you were. meanwhile, your fingers and face told me in striking movements that something was horribly wrong, that i musn't step in it, and what was it? what was it? a man...a man who was decapitated by someone with an ax, whose loose head i couldn't see--though maybe i wasn't trying very hard to see it--or perhaps i was trying very hard to avoid it--. i saw only a vague, dark spot on the floor, interrupted by what seemed to resemble the remains of roadkill guts that can't be removed from the ground even after the carcass has been hauled off--the parts of the body's insides that no one bothers to clean up off of the ground because it's just too nasty to touch, just too gross to look at and think about. no one wants to be reminded of a body in its expired, grotesque forms.
and you were telling me that you had to go, go, go throw up somewhere, so you ran away from me and towards the end of the station. so i took my leap and followed you, disorientated by your instability, fearful of what else would go wrong...
and you threw up, in my peripheral vision, a mass of white that sent the stench of vomit wafting through and through the air. i tried to go back up the stairs that we came down, in a panic now, and you told me not to, throwing at me an abbreviated phrase that meant danger, contagion, mortality (i guessed, and i guessed right). so i walked towards a woman whom i saw a little ways away on the platform, since you were devoted mostly to vomiting.
i woke up, sometime there, with my left arm bent in a funny angle, numb and falling asleep.
i can do it next tuesday, if i wanted to.
i delayed my alarm soundings one by one, jolted awake each time, annoyed by myself:
how little i knew of myself. or, maybe, how much i rebelled against my knowledge of myself every day, refusing to accept the ways in which i work, setting up earlier alarms than i would ever follow.
in the two hours of my thursday afternoon nap, i dreamed. and of all the scenarios i dreamed, i can only remember the last few seconds of it now.
saying goodbye to a friend, we were going home. we were in new york. i thought you were leaving for philadelphia to return for the semester (this dream backtracked two weeks from reality time), with me, but you weren't. you wanted to stay in new york, to extern a bit longer than the usual week. (even though, thinking about it now, the time frames don't make sense). you externed at a famous law firm. i didn't. i felt defeated, both at my diluted career aspiration, and at the thought of losing my travel companion.
and what was more, i think we were in a relationship in my dream. and the feeling i felt when you chose your job over me...
so i bought my ticket to stay in new york. there was no reason to go back to philadelphia so early, anyway. when i last went back to school earlier than was necessary, i felt lonely, depressed, worthless. (again, though, that early return "last" time took place two weeks ago in reality time. so maybe i traveled forth in time in dream). i bought my ticket to go home to my parents, which meant really no ticket at all, because my parents live in new york and we were still in new york, and i had my metrocard--and that was all i needed.
i walked with you away from the ticket booth and towards the spiral stairs that would lead us down to the station platforms, and as we were stepping down, i played my fingers against yours. because our hands weren't holding each other. because i wanted to be closer. because i wanted you to recognize my presence. acknowledge me. play with me.
love with me.
i wanted to confirm that you were not annoyed by me. because i am always afraid that you are annoyed by me.
your fingers gave me a response--weak, soft, their attention restrained, barely there. but it was a response nonetheless. i guess i was contented.
then, as we reached the bottom of the stairs, the end of the spiral led us to your sudden agitation at something on the floor. another person to my left gasped and was trying to say something...and so were you...and i can't remember now, but maybe you tried to pull me to the side, or pull me down, towards where you were. meanwhile, your fingers and face told me in striking movements that something was horribly wrong, that i musn't step in it, and what was it? what was it? a man...a man who was decapitated by someone with an ax, whose loose head i couldn't see--though maybe i wasn't trying very hard to see it--or perhaps i was trying very hard to avoid it--. i saw only a vague, dark spot on the floor, interrupted by what seemed to resemble the remains of roadkill guts that can't be removed from the ground even after the carcass has been hauled off--the parts of the body's insides that no one bothers to clean up off of the ground because it's just too nasty to touch, just too gross to look at and think about. no one wants to be reminded of a body in its expired, grotesque forms.
and you were telling me that you had to go, go, go throw up somewhere, so you ran away from me and towards the end of the station. so i took my leap and followed you, disorientated by your instability, fearful of what else would go wrong...
and you threw up, in my peripheral vision, a mass of white that sent the stench of vomit wafting through and through the air. i tried to go back up the stairs that we came down, in a panic now, and you told me not to, throwing at me an abbreviated phrase that meant danger, contagion, mortality (i guessed, and i guessed right). so i walked towards a woman whom i saw a little ways away on the platform, since you were devoted mostly to vomiting.
i woke up, sometime there, with my left arm bent in a funny angle, numb and falling asleep.
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