Category: Uncategorized

Part 2:

The Act of Blaming things

“yeah the guilty is often
the victim of the injured.”

–khalil gibran

as if I am even hurting anything;
some embittered tremulous
thing shaking her fist at the
moon and praying for a tidal
wave.

you notice my arms are toned,
you say I really wear my weight.
you watch me lift bone to sky
and notice the notch in my veins
before you even notice
the flood.
i’m dripping past assaults
as a reason to affront
you into pushing me.
you feel mislead
standing on the ledge of a
slippery gate.
you were promised a mountain?

no,
you were promised a chasm
to cross.

“the bridge”

I’m obsessed with transition.
the form it takes
in movement and

thrown against a wall;
stalled in its pounce,
sudden landing
without intent.
and after all that patience
and miles of crouch
through the city,
to be suddenly seized
by your habits again:
your need for slow chase.
your salivation.
your wide open stance,
arms spread,
lips like decanter:
it is with love that i do this.

tips a holy red,
i begin to let my nails
trail the arms of strange
wool pea coats.

II.

your house was yellow.

my house was blue and
a ten by ten box;
me trapped,
torn between watching them
pack up their stuff
from their own pact to self,
their own inculpability
and me, dripping virulence,

telling them otherwise and
pushing them out.

I really miss your hands on me.
the way you held me in sullen incubation.

the frame is melting and so am I.
in the cradle of tar black trees,
I remember the oldest incantation:
the thrust I was given,
some gleaned anticipatory luck;
God gave you a chance and

 an unfinished smile.

we needed a spark.
I grin full tooth to show you
my new porcelain canines,
casually.
I fight the urge to bow
and suddenly tiptoe
all around you,
two inches taller than you remember
and my tongue hits your neck
like a quill.

hold your breath,
I say and
baby,
I’m a smokeshow, they say.
wait

for some other current to take me.
bite your skin.
let the tips of my
fingers dig in and

there are no exits.

“chrysalis”

good profile.

have never seen her hair
she was
wearing a platinum blonde wig
when I met her and
then a brown one and then
a head scarf:
floral, purple, I
remember.

bangs peeking out but
the rest an
all black everything
including dress,
boots and nails,
eyes lined like soot
tracing the chimney top,
and she was a
studious observer,
a witch. 
told me she “burned a sigil”
for this and then she
licked her lips
(think about me)
touched her nails to her tongue
(listen to me)
ran her wet nails down
her neck
(wait for me)

and I’ve just been waiting.

“How guys save me in their phone #12”

mood swings,
kind of mired in
a circular prophecy
that she keeps repeating.
silent in spurts,
frozen when alarmed but
then bursts in and says to
me: “are you fucking
watching me?”
like we’ve been talking
all this time
and I haven’t even
spoken to her
or interacted with
her in months

but were you watching her?

i mean yeah.

“how guys save me in their phone #11”

under my therapist’s guidance,
I switch chairs to talk
to my inner predator.
now  listen to the guilt,
  it’s talking,
I want to find out more about
her; what to call her,
where she hides sometimes
before I feel her seep into
each step.

I decided to have some boundaries
with the universe;
lined the edges of my bed with
geranium and lilac threads,
lined the sills with limonium,
wove my weave with daisy.   
my tub dripped nightly:
an altar of salt and
lavender sage.
watched my toes glide to the surface
by a dozen votives.
tease the cat
with little splashes at her nose.
forget everything.
my entire winter
was littered with
shards of celestite
and low violin.
I could see the sky when I wanted
from my dining room table
or on a brisk walk
to pick up oranges and Earl Gray
for the morning.
rediscovered medicine in prayer
and herb and
open mourning for my karmic retribution,
suddenly rectified,
suddenly deserved.
       
amethyst in my sock drawer and jasper
near the lamp, I held
one shout in my throat
in an effort to continue to
subjugate myself.
protect myself from myself.
protect myself from herself.
but it’s so tiring;
that anorexic
bloodlust,
insatiable mouth,
the doe eyes and
planned outfits,
the scent so close
you begin to change shape
without notice.

you begin to grow a
mandible heart.

you begin to drool.
you begin to chomp
a little at their
wrists as they hand you
something.
  I return to the chair,
calmly tell her
the following week.

I plan to spend the year
fat; replete in web
and feast.

“gestalt”

made me walk to her house
and collect stones along the way.
said she was building something.
my pockets and fingers were dirty
and when I arrived,
she was sitting, arms crossed
and
“throw that conch shell away”
is how she greeted me.
I feigned my deference
and regret it now.
she never wanted me to kneel
but to toil for her favor.

she didn’t greet me with any body part
but squared me.
when I asked about the stones,
she looked perplexed.
said to throw those away too.

“sisyphus” or “how guys save me in their phone 10”

before I lived in the pink room,
I made you lug every piece
of oak antique two-piece
furniture up my winding third story
walk up and set it exactly where
I wanted it before you
were done.
I only like things with value
I gestured to someone else
and everything I owned was wooden.

when we got to the room with
the stained glass windows,
the room cut in half,
cut with four windows and
we both eyed the pale yellow
stilted glass cabinet
that looked like it came from a carnival;
one of those old machines where you put
a coin in and a fortune comes out.
double mirrors, two legs and all that
was missing was the teller inside.
you looked at me as if you knew
I would ask but
it stays.

it came with the place and
years later, I made another man
rip it to pieces,
plank by plank,
and carry it back down the stairs.
I want the mirror
I said without looking at him,
looking only at my reflection
as it glinted at me from the living
room and I carried it back to
its place while also
ignoring his pleas for warmth,
his servitude to only benefit himself,
his displays of courtship
on his knees where I never
asked him to fall.
just clean this up.

I was focused on my legs.
I was focused on my thighs.
I was focused on my torso,
my serpentine twist of a spine.
I have yet to see either of you again.
and here’s a free scroll:
like the algid vortex that
blows from the north
and coats the town in
freeze and forces those to skate
across,
I break men.

I live in a pink room
with a rectangular mirror
propped against the wall on
the floor surrounded by
cards and flowers
and at night,
she comes to me
like the riding crop
that sharpens as they gallop,
I break men,
she makes me say it.

“the mirror”

you’re shrouded
in caricature of self
under pressure:
embosked in

crouching vines,
twigs and berries, my clothing
and your permanent frost that
molds you into something
statuesque–a snowman frozen
in my front
yard but I’m suddenly feeling
myself so sun,
so warm,
arms wide open,

cherry lipstick,
leper with no island and a
strong want for community.
need to touch your fingers with
my tongue,
audacity,
some ire,
some unresolved bleak black,
and I’m mad at God for every season
that brings the buried back.
I’m not over it,
I’m batshit and
I’m terribly bereft.
I’m hot
they say.

you’re melting a
little and I keep talking about
myself to fill the space.
I used to be
a vacant room
but now I’m full of
places,
suspect,
other people’s things,
vindication, some trust,
other people’s prayers;
the hurt of how they wear me once,
or at night or in their head
and then hang me like
an amulet above their door
to gawk at, clap at,
ask for favor like I’m God’s
only walking angel and really
i’m full of enmity and
you and I are both full of
me.      pinch your carrot nose
and wait for the high noon
rays to hit your coal smile
so you become the puddle
at my feet the thirsty
dog I leashed laps
quietly and you asked me.
what do I long for?

the cloying puffs of air
near my ear saying
come here and
the weather changing.
i’m adding a hat to your costume when
a man taps me on the shoulder.
he wants to ask what’s become of the
others that came before you
and I want to get to the
bottom of it.

“the sun”

she’s leaving reminders.

I like watching her.
tall and in bright
top and shorts,
tan and her mouth slightly
poised in some introspection,
one dangling finger pointing
to her skin to remind you
how she feels
at night;
smooth
like soft-shelled
murder.

“the photograph”