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

-gwendolyn brooks

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 I find my head turning, giving notice to something: 

the phone on the table. the front door closed and my boots near it. I am on my knees, palms pressed into the floor to stop myself.  the howlite is next to me. a deep longing to be still. I am facing the door. it is not even three seconds of this belabored quiet before I am up; before I am grabbing my headphones and
straw.

—-

 I am interrupting myself. clutching the straw and the keys and the knob. knees crack. my wrists are turned inward slightly. they are  always like that:  unnaturally curved so it’s hard to write things down. my handwriting has become an indecipherable slant of lines and wavy figures. sometimes it’s hard to pick things up or open things or just be here now. the constant ache.  the T-rex bend to the elbows so I can fiddle as I pace. the way I like to do it: an internal palavering clouding me as I lope forward.  I dropped the howlite for this. pick up the straw. head to the door. habits are insidious. they are the leftover thing to shake. made from ephemeral need becoming  the most used devices even though need is fleeting. you could wait a second or only have one sip of water to sate a tongue. 

one glass for a whole throat. a couple more glasses more when it’s actual dehydration which judging from the depersonalized reference to yourself, is constant and haunting. this is the distant oasis you’re gaining.this is the gauntlet. these tics; they just sit through anything and become fed. fat. the word habitual means regular or usual. I am flinging the front door open in hat and coat and headphones because the come up is hard but you have about ten minutes of a mostly innocuous adjustment before it gets harder. before the drug hits. I took mushrooms for this. for what?

 habits are familiar. they are the leftover thing to shake.

  1. Propitiation

being obsessed with inequity
creates lines on
your face.
your teeth clenched
with scowl and stress,
mired panic, just something
so familiar about lack,
empty stomach. subway,
one headphone working
so the sound is all the way up
to drown out the left’s tinnitus
and you’re eyeing her up and down,
pining for that woman’s jacket. 


but it provides a catalyst to
all movement.

 people are scared
to admit a big motivator
to success is
their unremitting desire
for vengeance.
and money helps.
takes away the change
of facial shape.
fills halls, fills
spaces with things.
little decorative things.
and money assuages.

and money goes but
comes eventually.
or at least that’s
what you tell the
little tree you water.
the little girl shoved
deep inside the well,
hands out, frozen.

“The Money Tree”

do I practice baneful magic? of course. do I recommend it? no. because black magic reverberates. it’s repercussion has to land.

where does yours land?

somewhere deep inside of me in wait. nursed by her barbed cocoon just giving way for new offense,

then

burst breath of rage

I want to live inside anyone–
even their indifference is
reassuring. assurance of company
felt by the chill
of departure.
felt in a tangible way
by longing.

I felt hopeful when I finally met him,
heard,  touched and
cradled.
began to teach him.

first, light the candle.
write the dream.
that’s easy, then
put the cayenne in the bowl.
spit.
      I have blessed everything in this house
wave my hand over lines of black salt.
sprinkle it everywhere.
put the kyanite here to
infiltrate their thoughts.
          we are asking for nightmares.
it’s easier in pairs.
remind him how no one believes you.
put the tourmaline on the windowsill.

my biggest strength is no one believes me.
we ask Hellebore for veil.
here,


put the wormwood in the bowl,
darling. no, like this.
liberally, I show him
fistful, good,
more.

“ARACHNE”

He says I speak “incessantly”

I say “I’m a victim of a luckless birth and now I’m
subjected to your weird hoarding,
fucked guilty feelings about
your half-lucky start.”

“I don’t mean the unfortunate death,
|I mean the MONEY you get,”
I try to clarify. 

it’s january 10th,
and I storm out
but I can’t just
figure out how to get around.

“January 10th”

took me a few weeks to find the right station.
started at Allegheny, but we quickly
moved to a new one.  new location
down the street. lucky,
it’s a straight line.
  why can’t you get around?
circulates the acrid air but
there were some things lacking in this house:

color. that eggshell white encased
us and we had no budget for luxury
save the statue you brought home
but I’ll save that story.
heat, they shut it off as the previous
owner had been stealing it and
a misunderstanding occurred when  I called
to transfer the bill in my name
so we sat in arid silence
  by a space heater under
borrowed throw blankets.
they said it would take
three weeks to come back on
regardless of the cold front,
our innocence about it,
it would take three weeks to
turn back on.
and money. 


I had none coming in.
friends.
I had none coming in.
and I suppose in the tritest of ways,
love. an absence felt
with action, namely,
the bellowing 

 why can’t you figure out
how to get around?

“Huntington Station”

it’s got a tenuous feel;
like slipping
or promise’ these  government
fingers and really
buried hurts.resurfacing
in moments. in
explanation to someone,
detached, almost objective
if not for that one watery eye
you wouldn’t believe that the
narrator realizes
the immensity of what they’ve
survived..

–Allegheny Station

he says,
name your torture
there are two giant
bruises on each thigh.
I am careful not to hit them
as I shift my hem.
he doesn’t even ask.
I spent most of my time
that late winter
searching.
what you would say, ugh,
combing through options,
in flux and in search of
weight.
and some guy to hold me.

it keeps no record of wrongs.
i’m saying it out loud
and I’m noticing my drawl
drawn out that’s how I know
he’s about to come round.
placed toffee on the other
mantle the way he likes
try not to ask about
whatever wayward lover
disentangled.
waste.
of time.
but here we are
marking everything
xxx with my fire finger
so I decide to
begin again:

love is patient.

I am trying not to get lost
in the mirror
which is a tall fucking
order. we are two inches from each
other and I can’t help but
melt when the cool breath
hits my left cheek.
I’m plucking at the dress.
he grabs my hand
to stop my ticking.
what’s that?
he says.

this is where the poem begins

a friend told me,
let vengeance drive you.
and some say
it is better to pray that
your enemies have everything you want
than to pray they go without.

so we are both knives forward

and

this 

is 

where

the 

poem

begins.

we parted due to irreconcilable differences.

—-

as long as I am writing I feel fine about the harm.

—–

the amount of times I screamed privately and you still think I asked for your help.

——-

you need people around you who don’t need anything but make you look good and I need family. you like when people have status and i like when people care.


—-you just have to write—-

—-

catharsis is screaming in a bathtub and also “destruction is an action”

you just HAVE TO WRITE THE LITTLE GHOSTS SAID

—–

harder to write about the real pain you have experienced.

—-

you lied about who you are to use me.

—-

this is where the poem begins

you lied about your magic.

catarsis is revenge.

—-

you lied and 

set

the bowlof pepper
tourmaline.
you don’t
have another chance.

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