“Live! And have your blooming in the noise of the whirlwind.”

-gwendolyn brooks

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“perfect joy excludes even the very feeling of joy, for in the soul filled by the object, no corner is left for saying “I.”

 

–Simone Well

 

every day up at dawn
on my knees and thanking
God for letting me stay feral,
hand drawn
and as sick as all my
secrets.

2.

i am the magic,
they are the drawn.

magic magic clap clap clap
look who got her fangs back!

God made me a monster
and God makes pacts with
predators, (redacted)! 

I scream at  you as you make your way
to your fifth meeting of the week.
me? I’m
chilling in bed,
reading Louise Erdrich and
when you see me again,
I will be serrated.

all day long I do equations
in my head.
as I walk to the laundromat
shifting the hamper beneath me,
I think about how many quarters I brought
and what that will get me doubting
my skill yet every month,
I still have some left in my cup.
what chore is coming next.
I need to wash the windows
and also I’m ankle deep in someone
else but that might
be conjecture
I think as I place the bin on the
ground knowing I have two more
at home and three flights of stairs
and I think       that’s an understatement

I think.

I think a lot about my
own divisiness and the ways to get
more or away or someone.
how I mask it.
what I can do.
what I’m doing.
how what I thought I about
yesterday compares meekly
to the euphoric way the sun
hit my shoulders just today
and no other day will compare to
this feeling so I mold it into
tangibility, twisting a straw,
photographing the figures of me
opening the door for someone
on way to get my second load
and thinking, so happy
to witness.

also
I love probability
like
what’s the likelihood I’ll see your
friend again, seeing him three times
already and you never there cuz
I don’t set foot on your lawn,
your territory, not mine
to fight for and
what is it going to take to hypnotize
a small crowd and at what cost to my
well being and I was practical so
how much money will I  make
if I devote myself entirely
to one thing vs. side things
and how honestly bad I
crave the hustle
but also I would like to crave stability
and statistically speaking,
we have to look at patterns,
not just equations but
trends so then here comes
more of the past.
I’m real used to it:
being three places at once
if I’m any less than nine.

 

I turn the headphones up.

you gave me a bouquet of
weeds as I was drinking
my third cup of coffee.
you had picked them from
our backyard when I wasn’t
looking. 

you were smiling
big, and I thought I loved
you. I had gone upstairs to
change into a sundress
and tore a muscle near
my spine.
I called down to you.
it feels like I pinched a nerve
and am having trouble breathing.
what should I do?
you looked up the staircase
on your way out
the front door and tossed a
I don’t believe you
my way.
someone else drove me to
the doctor  and doctor
confirmed it,
prescribed me Flexeril
and wrote me
a note for work.
I laid in bed waiting for the
drugs to subside.

you came home
and attempted to justify
why you always felt
deceived by me.
I lay numb,
relieved of feeling anything as you recited
everything I’d ever done
that bothered you.
you weren’t sorry,
it’s Sunday and I feel
nothing for you
now.
I drop a pair of panties
on the sidewalk
on the way out and
someone calls me from
the corner.


I turn my headphones up.

it’s Sunday and
it’s true, this too shall
pass and boy,
do I feel nothing for you now.

“Sunday”

if you write this book,
no man will ever trust you and I respond

good let them drown. 

and I watched four thousand
pages fall right out of me.

you are only as sick as your
secrets the old man says
and I nod emphatically
like I found them and

I have just
applied a fire engine red
gloss to my lips and
sat down in the middle of five
men: black tights, black
skirt and black pleather jacket.
my hair is slicked
and how I should have started
was confessing that Whole Foods
should hire better security but what
I choose to say is nothing
and sip the five
fingered
alcohol infused Kombucha
like I earned this
deviancy and I start by
saying “I had no idea
this was a men’s meeting
but thank you so much for
allowing me to be here”
and brave a smile
but what I should have said
was every inch of clothing
from my velvet black push up
bra that has drawn some neighbors
nearer to my high heeled
mock suede boots
stretched out in the center
like I just need this space so
much is absolutely
unpaid for;
one way or another,
nothing I hold
has been paid for
yet. 

“confession #1”

all day long
I vacillate between intention,
maybe a couple steps forward
or skirting one craving
and then the immediate withdrawal,
the later three walks and
four coffees, twelve cookies
and picking a fight;
my habits,
my beloved
hermeticism and the double meaning of
everything and I’m
ambivalent about every choice
I’ve given myself over to;
even in completion,
I shrug.
let the wind take me.

now I am
in Philadelphia,
applying for an Access card,
going on interviews at spas
and also scrounging social
service work not sure if I can face
it again.
writing letters to an old client
lying saying I got into Temple’s
education program for no
reason and I’m
raising my hand in meetings
to volunteer for service.
getting invited to social things.
crying endlessly and in public,
which refreshes me.


I am dog sitting; house sitting for
money in Queen Village,
and I spend the days
drinking their coffee
and sneaking their chocolates.
using their washer for my own
heavy blankets,
and walking the pit bull
without the choke chain
she gave me.
not trying to make a fuss
about it even though I want
to put it around her,
walk her on her fours and
then tug a little bit.
instead I
observe the doors of people
in Society Hill: clean black or
mahogany with the numbers painted on
them or in brass next to their
outdoor lanterns, their empty
flower boxes soon to be leaking
zinnias, petunias, geraniums.
and
heavy doors.
strong wood.

this reminds me of the time
I was being driven around an
area of DC I didn’t recognize.
we had weaved through Georgetown and
then I noticed these houses towering over
me, gargantuan and white and
lawns that you could roll down.
I asked the driver what neighborhood
we were in and he flatly said,
this is a rich ass neighborhood.
this is where the super rich pentagon people
live and I said
we should rob them.

I begin to circle the area
with the pit bull.

“Spring Valley”

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