when I’m still, the breezes hit
and then suddenly the room falls
away. I can feel the blackness
pervade as if there is a hand
around my neck;
this ostensive power
beyond me.
i’m clutching the rug,
bottom of the ocean,
as the first wave hits.
“the labyrinth”
I told my boyfriend every crazy thing that happened to me
on the first night we met,
talked til 430 am.
talked about The Spotify Thing
but he’s humoring me now.
haven’t really shown him anything
except my eyes red, once,
when we fucked,
he said
“your eyes changed.”
he said it was scary
and then I didn’t want to do it anymore.
“LILITH & I”
typically, an episode starts
at the mantle any time of day
but something has to hit
and it’s usually
three things at once:
stasis plus drugs,
(that means im fucking dizzy and
no one will listen)
an acid wave in
my stomach and
a recurring thought,
(some say intrusive or internal stimuli)
caffeine, throbs, jaw
tightening into one flat line–
then there’s the timing.
in no particular order:
can’t breathe
can’t swallow
can’t move my legs
and then the heart leaps
start; staggered,
the rhythm is irregular.
racing.
my pulse burning.
mouth turns to stone.
tongue desperate, bone-
dry, lurching outwards and me
biting it to stop talking.
just want to stop talking.
saying everything that’s happening out
loud and answering their questions
but snapping, imprudent.
i don’t know what I notice first:
that I haven’t exhaled,
swallowed or stood or
or
that I can’t seem to do anything
nor stop the group from
screeching orders.
desperate choral grove.
the candle on the altar.
blow it out.
no, lick it.
just get up.
listen to me, Cat. me first.
there’s giggles all around,
dead little girls.
and today it’s
jump off the bridge, Catarina.
don’t cross the bridge, Catarina.
We call this next section “Thirteen Stories”, or
“Jump off the bridge, Catarina”
I’d tell you I harvest mens orgasms
for my own personal gain
but you’d say that’s rather crass
so what the fuck do you think I do?
Part 2:
The Act of Blaming things
“yeah the guilty is often
the victim of the injured.”
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.
‘“The Long Rain”
there you are.
Saturdays and the 1 pm
alarm clock on snooze,
the bare-faced evenings
in throw blankets;
languid, but there is still
a rabid tongue
during fits of sudden inspiration.
moved from sheets
to cushions
to sheets
to type it,
to shower once a week
if you’ll allow yourself
to feel the warmth
graze your chin, scalp,
untouched chest.
open your chapped lips to the sky.
feel the water
trickle down your navel.
do not question anything
for those three whole seconds;
it is the closest thing to orgasm
you can manage.
it has been a tough change in seasons:
costuming yourself in grin,
tights and boots;
you vulnerable, kid?
an expansive blankness
still drives your body around
to pick up soy milk for breakfast.
finish something you started.
there you are,
you cooing cobra.
the chills that almost ate
me: winter. several
in a row.
the darkness and introspection of how
I’ve chosen to succeed:
lone and stolid
Two of Swords.
thanking my institutions
for showing me how to carve
pure copper into
green or something sharp to hold,
the likelihood that two things
look identical enough
to both be chosen,
that I will learn the
ways of mask
and holster; unfrozen
and burgeoning.
there you finally are.
“rage”
I have vague memories of standing places,
squinting to read the street signs.
I once walked from 34th and Hamilton to
5th and Walnut without so much
of a forethought, or plan
to get back once my knee
went out.
And I did it every day.
Now I am severely injured in many places but
no one believes me
so I just wash it all down.
“The kratom series”
“You made me believe you were a victim.”
“No, I told you a story and you inferred victimhood.”
The Woman Who Wrote Little Notes
and I’m The Fairest Thing That Ever Happened To You
let’s just have some fucking fun.
Chapter 1: “I am inviolable”
(Or the woman who held her breath)
Once I saw the whole thing.
“God.”
I was centered in sigil. My spine was sharp and straight and glistened in the sun like a sword. I was breathing softly with intention. Breathe.
I became breath.My living room rocked like a cradle swathed in nightlight enveloping the baby’s fear and I had been promised some protection. God. I asked for breath. Breathe
I became breath and nestled in large silk strands, the hair of a goddess, the forearms of a saint. “God.”
I let the fire in my chest build with each name I said until I could feel the slow burning rise to full flame. I waited until I could feel the full pounding; until I could hear someone say YES! from a distance.
“God,” I started again and let it be known I was not shaking.
“Whose answered prayer am I?”
You could say I asked for it.
——–
wipe the crust from your eyes
wake up! wake up!
God needs you.
—————–
The Woman Who Saw Her Own Death.
Chapter 1: “I am inviolable”
daturamoon.com 