this next section is called:
datura moon, the video game.

 

what is it that I owe you?

IMG_0692welcome to the gauntlet.

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you can lead a war:
you could lead your own.

“And you think you can you tell the difference?”
“Between a truth and a lie?”
“No, between how I got here and the weirdest thing about me.”

Book one:
The Woman Who Told The Stories

 

I have a piece of paper and
a dozen dead things wilted
in their vase.

there is a touch of red
sprinkled around the glass
that browns and sets as dry
on the sill in
my small uncurtained bedroom that
I pace
when I have too much on my
mind and today they
remind me
life is a patient rot
to tomb, a gauntlet and
fluid so I  better keep
moving.

life is a patient
gut to get to
wound     it was April
on Earth Day when I wrote
My Brother Is Dead
in the back of a notebook I would never
look at again.
it would be the thing thrown away
as I packed the car two years later
in December, in the frost of us and
in my big brown jacket that absorbed me in
synthetic down and
I’m twirling the stem of a
decaying feather
of a real dead sparrow in my jacket pocket,
the lyrids
are crowning across Colorado as
I am responding to
a nod, someone asking
was he your only brother?

as if that even mattered

yes, he was my only brother,
I hugged myself.
pinched the feather,
pinched the straw,
pinched the lining of leggings,
my inner thigh, below the knee and
every inch of skin
to keep me from vanishing
from the chair and
I feign a lot:
every feeling,

was he your only brother?
it is much easier to disappear
but the house moved with
me;  from
freeze to open
like an unattended mortuary
moved to resurrect itself
after years of
neglect and

did you know,
the bones given a soft
lick will sparkle
white  like fresh-caught
ivory and once it
feels the brush of
mouth will file
any joint to tip
with tooth
and gore the
things that touches
it, that holds it
near to chest or
safely in its palm?


as it shreds the flesh from
crown to feet,
someone says to me,

 

“with sincerest sympathy”

 

“if whatever you think comes true,
don’t let it go to your head,
and don’t forget to be humble.”

–waka poem

you would I say take

many needless risks

if you ever said anything.
just this week,
my apartment caught fire
three times before I learned not to
set the candles on the carpet.
I hung the burned black moon portrait of a woman engorged with earnest alacrity above the owl
candle holder and littered the altar with yellow paper daisies that danced towards the flames as I began
my bold request
for everything.
“the honey trap”

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