“I have no future plans,”
I begin calmly.
I am arms outstretched
walking nowhere but with ardency
so im labeled
whimsical and manic.
I hear in a distance, someone repeat it:
You use intimidation as a tactic
to seize opportunity,
well,
I am blessed with delusive lips
and I also use black magic.
“seven of cups”
“I have no future plans,”
I begin calmly.
I am arms outstretched
walking nowhere but with
ardency so I am labeled:
whimsical and manic,
a troubled woman
not to marry and
like a wound up
fairy, the character that
keeps the music box
spinning.
until it’s boring:
the repetition,
the posing,
the pink smile and
matching slippers
leaping from her
gold coiled post
growing nerves and
ankles that bend flat
to walk to
run. to crawl.
people like me because
I have no plans,
am honest about it,
resplendent teeth when
writing sonnets to the men
and a sense of fury when
reflecting on affairs.
I’m big,
and have wings that
carry weapons.
I hear in a distance someone repeat it
you use intimidation as a tactic
to seize opportunity
well,
I am blessed with delusive lips
and I also use black magic.
“seven of cups”
in Boulder, it was called “Unity.”
I was invited once by a girlfriend
and stayed.
we talked a lot about
life and mysticism,
the way currents showed up
for us at the right time
and I wish I had documented more.
like the Gratitude meeting,
I stayed with groups that forced
everyone to share.
they went in a circle.
I sat among them, mostly
men, always mostly men:
young this time.
I once remember sharing
how manipulation used to serve me
and a guy that I had reached
out to about death,
because my brother had just passed.
made eyes at someone.
I was still waiting for his response.
tuck the errant hair
and look around
stopping at no one in particular.
at the risk of being
labeled calculating, I still
liked being seen.
“unity”
.
at the risk of being
labeled calculating, I still
like being seen.
all day long
I vacillate between intention
and immediate withdrawal;
my habits, my beloved
hermeticism and the double meaning of
everything. I’m
ambivalent about every choice
I’ve given myself.
even in completion,
I shrug.
let the wind take me.
“ January”
“I know he meant it to be kind,
as if to say honey, restraint wears
you well.“
kelly grace Thomas, Boat Burned
I keep you in my palm.
I keep you in my fist;
squeeze you in my
palm and write my
name with fingerprints.
dotted drips like lines on highways,
designs with influence:
personal meaning
but lazy.
afterthoughts marked with
drops of you
you say:
afterthought?
you built a town and
stuffed me in it.
my coltish way I fidget next
to you on the bench.
lick my dry lips
without looking up and
pull the hem slowly
with my stubbed, teal nails
to point to the tattoo of
the north star on my leg;
it’s black, sharp and fresh.
and
boy
you
better
run.
“The gauntlet”
“love?”
flick the ash to my right side
ive taken up spliff again.
I’m walking the block with
my syncopated thoughts.
the beat is long chord
& repetitive.
there’s a specter of a man
in my headphones
at all time and today he wants
to know what he means to me.
I tell him.
“I want love
unencumbered
by actuality.”
you never ask about my mornings
or daydreams; just
twirl the edge of your Merit
between your thumb
and pointer and
go back to ignoring that
there are years of stance
between us.
( it’s just one breath)
look at me with
masked inconsequence,
a cold front and
lick whatever sugar is stuck to
my teeth.
go back to your lighter.
go back to your quiet
preoccupations, your
mundane wardrobe.
go back to your opinion
that my anarchy
is the danger of the couple,
not your ability to
wrap your fist around a throat
without a safety word first.
and love?
I want this thing gone.
it’s rent I have to worry about
most.
“Staid”
it’s called “arithmomania”
but I made like ugh a whole ritual
around it so I bound myself to 3.
And what does 3 mean?
it means that my oven timer is gonna
start going off at 3:33 again if I’m
not careful about what I relinquish
in time.
“the oven timer time” or “arithmomania” or “there is no time”
daturamoon.com 