genius is crucifying.

catholicism; witchcraft
hidden by design. talking
to palms, glass. don’t let
them take your history
away. whose been lighting
candles this long? and
for what? to talk
to the God.

Part 2:

The Act of Blaming things

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

–khalil gibran

(a postcard)

I usually go to bed by ten pm
swathed in cheap sheets I picked up
from a trash can: moth-bitten
and low thread count and I washed them
but you’re right it’s a sense of self-deprivation
I wrap myself tightly inside
while I’m
tortured by my low self worth,
absent flowers, cold feet,
lamp on next to me and
wax all over the unfinished table
you were making
before I threw the chair you had finished
down the stairs to get you to
open up
here is what I need
I might have screamed
as you opened up the door
if I was better at controlling my
communication
but it ended in a slap across
your face and
your hands around my neck.

yeah there is a badger
in me, hind legs,
growl out.
mask down,
got nothing to hide
now except all these
tattoos.

“the war”

When he turned the corner, I turned the corner. When he stopped at the orange hand,  I stopped at the orange hand. When he jaywalked, I jaywalked, although sometimes that’s when I lost them. I moved with him.  Watched his gait, uncertain shuffle, the way he was always running his hand through his hair with some timed tension-breaking. He held inconceivable space for his own self-assurance; feigned and toxic and unable to yield. He would play with his keys or a pen, in a way so  his forearms brushed people constantly. He would always have his head way up or way down and in his phone but never on anyone unless it was me, intimidating and meant to invoke subordinate laughter. A subordinate curtsy.   He was heavy on the sidewalk. Stomped his way through people, indifferent to the chasms he cut through couple He passed right through them like a ghost. Like they were ghosts forced to make their point abruptly or cut the thought short or turn around in disgust and the mood would be inevitably lost no matter how they chose to approach it. They came back together aware of the split. Aware they can be split. Aware they are not one. They came back together and then I followed in his footsteps.

  I mimicked his carnal prowl; the way he ruined things, the way his arms hung at his side like a big, hungry primate. No purpose, I saw, but to smash rocks, strangle things, dangle things above me. I made my movements wider.  I flexed the whole walk to make my arms stronger, larger, strong and large enough to smash rocks, strangle things, dangle my sex above them.  I channeled the Earth’s orbit and became giant space behind him. I wanted to loom. I wanted someone to feel something looming behind them. I wanted them to be the victims of a person constantly walking in and out of their relaxing silence.  They demanded interruption. I became stifled violence.

 I became indiscriminate in my hunt. Sometimes whole groups I would follow. I would be in front of them to start, choosing all my movements slowly, carefully, deliberately, aware I was being watched. I was being followed. I would tense and untense my hand so they had something to focus on; so they could see my nails ripping at the inside of my palms and then releasing. So they could see my nails were sharp and sharpening. My biceps flexing so they could see my arms were strong and strengthening. So they could see my palm was pre-callused. Sometimes I sauntered.  Sometimes I turned around without warning and walked the other way and caught all eyes now locked straight on my pussy. It was my ass they were just hungry for. Sometimes I laughed loudly to no one right in front of them and at them. Sometimes I relaxed; stopped dead in my tracks in front of them to check the weather forecast for the evening.  I responded to texts and let giant groups break in two just before hitting me, move around me, a wave crashing right before my feet and parting their own sea. I lingered there, responding, taking my time with my choice in vocabulary, choice in emoji sequence. They assumed frivolity. I assumed a wider stance and let another group scramble to pass me gracefully and then I suddenly changed direction.    

Sometimes I’d make eye contact for five hundred feet, or if I felt confident, I’d make eye contact for a mile. I walked right towards them, my lips set in a straight line. My eyes unblinking. My intent muddy. I waited until we were close enough to get a sense of each other. I stared until we were close enough to catch a whiff of each other.  I could smell their begging cologne from the first five steps of this mile. They anticipated a contact, maybe a word spoken, an observation about the mild winter we were having, a rehearsed joke, or unrehearsed nervous choke last minute, one chance, fuck it up.  Deep swallow. They hoped for something unbridled. Something untamed. At least, a once-over. I held a bit of a smirk but never anything wider, and then I looked up at the sun suddenly, looked directly at it. As they passed, I stared up at the sun the entire time. My head was completely back and I gawked.  Or if I was passing a window, checked my reflection. I ran my hand through my air with a feigned apprehension.  I watched my dogs perform and repeated it in front of them.  Whole groups I saw in my peripheral looking at me, waiting for me, watching me, wanting me to interrupt, but kindly. But please do it kindly. And I always checked my reflection, my lips set in a straight line just waiting for it.

“Hey girl,” they started.

I would suddenly change direction,
start running.

“the dogs”