all we do anymore is fight?
i concede. i sail on by
deserted waters, singing.
because it is all i can do.
i pluck a melody across all keys,
rain a storm of unstable notes.
i become slow and wild as nature,
chained with a grounded heart.
they bite my exposed skin,
but i walk on. i sang.
i heard the wind singing too.
my time is fogged in your smell.
in our walks in the deep woods,
in the rain of my childhood.
neruda 59
they who were hunted by life and tagged by death,
who never had time to breathe, are haunted now
as they wither in their caskets, trapped under
the celebration of their funeral march.
they lie in mute darkness behind the arrogance
of pompous asses trotting in show, eternally enslaved
in restless sleep, buried by the chaotic weight of oral vanity:
a brutal cacophony for the quiet and humbly broken.
the living live to feast upon the dead and a banquet of miseries
is laid upon the stage with the corpses: birds who flew,
pigs, and other creatures who lived to speak.
at last! they had long awaited this moment of death,
now disguise their schadenfreude with mocking songs:
they have the most beautiful voice, now that he cannot sing.
who never had time to breathe, are haunted now
as they wither in their caskets, trapped under
the celebration of their funeral march.
they lie in mute darkness behind the arrogance
of pompous asses trotting in show, eternally enslaved
in restless sleep, buried by the chaotic weight of oral vanity:
a brutal cacophony for the quiet and humbly broken.
the living live to feast upon the dead and a banquet of miseries
is laid upon the stage with the corpses: birds who flew,
pigs, and other creatures who lived to speak.
at last! they had long awaited this moment of death,
now disguise their schadenfreude with mocking songs:
they have the most beautiful voice, now that he cannot sing.
neruda 60, butchered
someone always hurts someone:
poisonous blows from me to you,
the venom travels through my limbs
to unmake you with cruel insomnia.
your moonlit face is darkened by the hatred
trailing me: i cannot help you against the shadow,
i cannot stop your dreams violently embedded
with a rusty crown of knives chasing you.
i step past you to find a horror in the river: a face
staining the calm water with ripples of an orgy
of jealousy, laughs of a sadistic slut, mine.
but it is that shadow that life has granted me.
i drag my limp and my sagging dress, for
they suit me well: I, the scarecrow who smiles in blood.
poisonous blows from me to you,
the venom travels through my limbs
to unmake you with cruel insomnia.
your moonlit face is darkened by the hatred
trailing me: i cannot help you against the shadow,
i cannot stop your dreams violently embedded
with a rusty crown of knives chasing you.
i step past you to find a horror in the river: a face
staining the calm water with ripples of an orgy
of jealousy, laughs of a sadistic slut, mine.
but it is that shadow that life has granted me.
i drag my limp and my sagging dress, for
they suit me well: I, the scarecrow who smiles in blood.
neruda sixty-one
he came dragging his line of pain, love.
we opened our eyes to watch this
stunning skeleton of blades and saw
the gashes that would appear on us.
you cry for a crime you did not commit:
your feet follow a trail of drying blood,
virginal hands stained grazing the blades,
led to where your honey turns to bile.
love is that heroic wave made villainous.
it carried us to the rocks with a single crash,
knotted our bodies into a single corpse.
face slapped, pain swallowed, we linger
with devotion in the deserted station, waiting
for the blessed bitch who comes in spring.
we opened our eyes to watch this
stunning skeleton of blades and saw
the gashes that would appear on us.
you cry for a crime you did not commit:
your feet follow a trail of drying blood,
virginal hands stained grazing the blades,
led to where your honey turns to bile.
love is that heroic wave made villainous.
it carried us to the rocks with a single crash,
knotted our bodies into a single corpse.
face slapped, pain swallowed, we linger
with devotion in the deserted station, waiting
for the blessed bitch who comes in spring.
neruda sixty-two.
hard is this love of me and of us.
we wanted to love, so we loved,
and on a bed of pain we two lay,
rendering ourselves wounded,
wanting for our bread, the kiss,
secretly and fully consumed. it was all
we would eat, simply and eternally
till our window was broken with hate,
hurled through by the poor who hungered,
having neither this nor an other love,
an empty chair in an abandoned room.
we waited as their hostility retreated
behind those tired eyes of ash,
as the sun returned into the earth.
we wanted to love, so we loved,
and on a bed of pain we two lay,
rendering ourselves wounded,
wanting for our bread, the kiss,
secretly and fully consumed. it was all
we would eat, simply and eternally
till our window was broken with hate,
hurled through by the poor who hungered,
having neither this nor an other love,
an empty chair in an abandoned room.
we waited as their hostility retreated
behind those tired eyes of ash,
as the sun returned into the earth.
neruda sixty-three, butchered
i walked the wastelands, lived on lonely salt rocks,
the only rose i saw was buried by the sea.
bitter: riverbanks, snow,
my high-wire walks across:
ensnared by a lover's whispers, who had abandoned me,
still her kiss imprisons me, my tongue caught on chains,
and yet! the bird must set himself free, thrashing off
into flight with a cry, fly by the loss of his feathers.
the skin poisoned and branded by copper hues, bent
under the weight of salt statues and drifting snow;
i wait for cherries to grow on spring branches.
i will be the black pit inside, stationed in this
home of thirst, quenched by the light of fall
that fosters sour grapes on vines that tower
atop the metallic landscape of snow.
the only rose i saw was buried by the sea.
bitter: riverbanks, snow,
my high-wire walks across:
ensnared by a lover's whispers, who had abandoned me,
still her kiss imprisons me, my tongue caught on chains,
and yet! the bird must set himself free, thrashing off
into flight with a cry, fly by the loss of his feathers.
the skin poisoned and branded by copper hues, bent
under the weight of salt statues and drifting snow;
i wait for cherries to grow on spring branches.
i will be the black pit inside, stationed in this
home of thirst, quenched by the light of fall
that fosters sour grapes on vines that tower
atop the metallic landscape of snow.
colgate and crest
after dinner i'd brushed my teeth but the oil was still on my lips, languid. i giggled because i was drunk and you took a picture covered by hands, colorless and warm inside between my front and back. i was the space heater and the open window and you were ignoring the laundry, the courteous knocks on the door, how the fraying blanket was draping the floor. you wore yourself against me and i don't remember what i wore.
sarah says it's a wild beast
it's got fat limbs and teeth blood.
some nights you hear it howling,
taking its bath in the sand, rustling.
shortly after, it dies in bed, clean,
tormented by its unwashed sheets.
every morning or afternoon it returns.
by the way it bumbles inside you would think
it's a baby bird trying to find its way out of the dark,
untrained and orphaned overnight,
timidly clawing through the cotton.
some nights you hear it howling,
taking its bath in the sand, rustling.
shortly after, it dies in bed, clean,
tormented by its unwashed sheets.
every morning or afternoon it returns.
by the way it bumbles inside you would think
it's a baby bird trying to find its way out of the dark,
untrained and orphaned overnight,
timidly clawing through the cotton.
neruda sixty-four, altered
with life and love stained in violets crushed,
i flew as a bird and blind, set in its way,
arriving at your window, friend:
you heard the heart being broken
when, rising from the dark to your breast,
into the field of tall wheat i unconsciously fell
and began my life in between your hands,
come joyously to you from the ocean's drowning.
no one may count out my debt to you, it's clear
what i owe you, love, and as an infant root
to AraucanÃa, i owe to you, beloved.
my debt is as faithful as the stars,
as deep as the well in the wild,
struck by lightning, kept in time.
i flew as a bird and blind, set in its way,
arriving at your window, friend:
you heard the heart being broken
when, rising from the dark to your breast,
into the field of tall wheat i unconsciously fell
and began my life in between your hands,
come joyously to you from the ocean's drowning.
no one may count out my debt to you, it's clear
what i owe you, love, and as an infant root
to AraucanÃa, i owe to you, beloved.
my debt is as faithful as the stars,
as deep as the well in the wild,
struck by lightning, kept in time.
lusting for that piece of shoulder, peace of mind
i make the God whom i love man
so that i may take my turn
caring for man, mighty and complete.
so that i may take my turn
caring for man, mighty and complete.
neruda sixty-five, altered
matilde, where are you?
i noticed, between the above and below
the tie and heart, a certain melancholy
caught on me: the sudden absence of you.
for my light and air, your atmosphere,
had me looking, consuming
hope in the void where i,
your empty house, was standing,
its tragic windows watching,
the quiet ceiling listening:
old feathers, and rain falling,
imprisoned in a leafless season.
and so i await you to be home again,
and leave the windows open.
i noticed, between the above and below
the tie and heart, a certain melancholy
caught on me: the sudden absence of you.
for my light and air, your atmosphere,
had me looking, consuming
hope in the void where i,
your empty house, was standing,
its tragic windows watching,
the quiet ceiling listening:
old feathers, and rain falling,
imprisoned in a leafless season.
and so i await you to be home again,
and leave the windows open.
a check every 5 minutes for this
after which the disappointment
lowers itself to bed, bunched blankets,
the internal pillow of a full stomach,
discomfort in one's own body,
routine constipation in every limb
and in waking, consider if this piece
might belong in maternity clothes,
if only motherhood ever birthed
an answer to anything.
after which the disappointment
lowers itself to bed, bunched blankets,
the internal pillow of a full stomach,
discomfort in one's own body,
routine constipation in every limb
and in waking, consider if this piece
might belong in maternity clothes,
if only motherhood ever birthed
an answer to anything.
balloon animals, the most fulfilled
there is sun in the morning, coming down on our mattress a waning child of light, splitting us down the middle. i am living with you. we have a bed. we watch movies sitting on our floor. when the wood becomes rough on the surface we put down a rag carpet and curl to sleep, puppies in our dogbed, three, four blankets.
we have a kitchen and we eat as we cook. once i slipped on a slightly watery floor and broke a dish. i stripped in the bathroom and soaked the shirt in the sink, the wrists worn, the loose button swimming down to the drain too fast for my eye.
i stayed with you until the ring grew too small on my finger. you are the first to remember when my hands still fit on you.
we have a kitchen and we eat as we cook. once i slipped on a slightly watery floor and broke a dish. i stripped in the bathroom and soaked the shirt in the sink, the wrists worn, the loose button swimming down to the drain too fast for my eye.
i stayed with you until the ring grew too small on my finger. you are the first to remember when my hands still fit on you.
the graduate.
mother tells me how to untrust
a separation
but through the years
i had learned it all
picking up the sliced skins
off the floor after each argument
episodes of reality tv
in ugly high definition
i am defending my dissertation
before a jury of the one who birthed me
have i passed the life test?
can i graduate with honors?
what use for this diploma that had taught me
to think no job will ever be good enough?
a separation
but through the years
i had learned it all
picking up the sliced skins
off the floor after each argument
episodes of reality tv
in ugly high definition
i am defending my dissertation
before a jury of the one who birthed me
have i passed the life test?
can i graduate with honors?
what use for this diploma that had taught me
to think no job will ever be good enough?
nothing
i've begun reading again.
the chest pains have returned, too,
made themselves felt
as i took the last few steps towards the stoop last night,
twice in succession,
fading in,
solidifying,
fading out.
i held my breath, as i used to do,
when such things happened.
it happened again today, sometime around lunch
and i told mom, and i told dad,
and i remembered when my pediatrician told me
"growing pains, don't worry, it's nothing"
the chest pains have returned, too,
made themselves felt
as i took the last few steps towards the stoop last night,
twice in succession,
fading in,
solidifying,
fading out.
i held my breath, as i used to do,
when such things happened.
it happened again today, sometime around lunch
and i told mom, and i told dad,
and i remembered when my pediatrician told me
"growing pains, don't worry, it's nothing"
promises are not broken they are just delayed
the tunnel would take a while to pass
through the noise a bottom for my pit
i love you in moments,
the way a woman becomes pregnant
when she feels her child kicking
i loved you in the subway tonight
rotund, to be deflated every night
and after the loss,
talking to myself
call it blackout therapy,
to pass away the time
today my therapist said:
If the coffee's too bitter
here's the bowl of sugar
help yourself.
wandering limbs seek independence
crashing to the floor with an elevated head
inside all dead and all child, all loss
mere blood mere body
though nothing was scarier than when you woke up with that jelly arm
robotic malfunction
numb and flopped
even you didn't
respond to you
two antagonists who complete each other
who else would?
inside all dead and all child, all loss
mere blood mere body
though nothing was scarier than when you woke up with that jelly arm
robotic malfunction
numb and flopped
even you didn't
respond to you
two antagonists who complete each other
who else would?
a record of my sick days
what a sham
what a shame
i tore my sleeve
the bones are disappearing again
i'll give you what i think you like
glasses made out of mirrors
i wear the bad luck on my eyes
need a new pair every seven years
merry christmas
happy new year
i am thankful
checklist:
have a cookie
hate yourself
have more cookies
assign to everything a meaning
enroute to becoming meaningless
that is why you like stickers so much
and names and patterns and why and response
or no response
checklist:
be so scared
euthanize
apathize
checklist:
stare into space
fear what you see
repeat
checklist:
cry
sleep
eat
repeat
checklist:
fly or drown
grieve on land
repeat
funny i don't think it will last too long
i sit still
her long legs jumping
filling the boat
i know how to swim
but i don't think i will
the wind is strong enough to fly.
**
i fell awake
i fell asleep
how different it is to see
life from a bus
the snow is gone
so last night never happened
hard ice heart burn
slip and bite
her long legs jumping
filling the boat
i know how to swim
but i don't think i will
the wind is strong enough to fly.
**
i fell awake
i fell asleep
how different it is to see
life from a bus
the snow is gone
so last night never happened
hard ice heart burn
slip and bite
delayed
your body i eject
invade a series of bodies
no longer mine
**
this morning i had a dream i'd had before, similar for all but my distinctively insane self-character. in place of fear there was empty fearlessness and laughter.
with my friend i had been on my way to find a beloved, on a train. the train goes underground, and the outer shell of the train car is stripped. in my best clothes i knelt and laid down in the cake pieces of dried animal feces littering the floor of the still-moving floor to avoid my own beheading against the low rusty ceiling, obstacle-course like.
rest break. my friend and i take our time and wait it out in a straw-filled room, not unlike an 18th- or 19th century prison room, but boringly spacious, and equipped with a large white two-door refrigerator.
an ominous feeling then, when you realize you have been in such a dream before. the two men who seek to kill me enter our cell. i find myself with them in their prison, my traveling companion left behind. i do not know if their motive is fueled by a conflict of love interests or for other reasons, but they are determined to stop my travels and to end me.
in their temporary territory i sought nonexistent shelter from their assault.
they have long rifles, old, belonging to the time period of the prison cells. i have nothing. i open the refrigerator and begin to dump its contents on myself. milk, juice, ketchup. i laugh in a mixture of submission, defeat, and hopelessness. this is how insanity begins, when faced with no other choice.
they mock me, laughter is contagious. i make for a forgotten fun on the floor, i take sloppy aims, i shoot, i miss, they shoot at me, i hide. i realize there is more than one bullet left in the gun in my hand. i take a better but still awful aim and shoot, again, again, again.
it goes like that, like a merry go round, refrigerator insanity and poorman's shots with outdated guns and silly round bullets flying out to effect wounds that do not hurt much except to blast off bits of effervescent ego and confidence. in my hands another gun, i shoot, my bullet flies out. it is a combination of a cone-headed steel pipe and the tail of an arrow, bearing semblance to a monstrously fatal tampon. it hits straight through to my strong assassin's body. i shoot more and he is dead. i borner the weaker killer and, after a time now blurred to me, somehow he is dead too.
my friend is nowhere to be seen. i do not continue on my way to find my lover. sometime after, in the prison-like room, my sanity returns, but the emptiness remains. i do not seem to realize that i am covered by milk, juices, and ketchup, maybe blood.
invade a series of bodies
no longer mine
**
this morning i had a dream i'd had before, similar for all but my distinctively insane self-character. in place of fear there was empty fearlessness and laughter.
with my friend i had been on my way to find a beloved, on a train. the train goes underground, and the outer shell of the train car is stripped. in my best clothes i knelt and laid down in the cake pieces of dried animal feces littering the floor of the still-moving floor to avoid my own beheading against the low rusty ceiling, obstacle-course like.
rest break. my friend and i take our time and wait it out in a straw-filled room, not unlike an 18th- or 19th century prison room, but boringly spacious, and equipped with a large white two-door refrigerator.
an ominous feeling then, when you realize you have been in such a dream before. the two men who seek to kill me enter our cell. i find myself with them in their prison, my traveling companion left behind. i do not know if their motive is fueled by a conflict of love interests or for other reasons, but they are determined to stop my travels and to end me.
in their temporary territory i sought nonexistent shelter from their assault.
they have long rifles, old, belonging to the time period of the prison cells. i have nothing. i open the refrigerator and begin to dump its contents on myself. milk, juice, ketchup. i laugh in a mixture of submission, defeat, and hopelessness. this is how insanity begins, when faced with no other choice.
they mock me, laughter is contagious. i make for a forgotten fun on the floor, i take sloppy aims, i shoot, i miss, they shoot at me, i hide. i realize there is more than one bullet left in the gun in my hand. i take a better but still awful aim and shoot, again, again, again.
it goes like that, like a merry go round, refrigerator insanity and poorman's shots with outdated guns and silly round bullets flying out to effect wounds that do not hurt much except to blast off bits of effervescent ego and confidence. in my hands another gun, i shoot, my bullet flies out. it is a combination of a cone-headed steel pipe and the tail of an arrow, bearing semblance to a monstrously fatal tampon. it hits straight through to my strong assassin's body. i shoot more and he is dead. i borner the weaker killer and, after a time now blurred to me, somehow he is dead too.
my friend is nowhere to be seen. i do not continue on my way to find my lover. sometime after, in the prison-like room, my sanity returns, but the emptiness remains. i do not seem to realize that i am covered by milk, juices, and ketchup, maybe blood.
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