if you can’t stop time, lean into it.
He pointed to his name tag, “I’m Orion.”
Marisol yelled from across the room, “XXX thinks he can be the constellation that attracts his true love to him.”
Part 2: How did you get here?
“a question marked swallow hungry for an answer.”
I have three cuts through
the devil on my leg
and a small bruise to the right of
it, a large bruise on
my left thigh.
when we met,
you had a large bruise on your
right arm
and I don’t know where
I got it.
you are careful.
I am unsure what to say.
I don’t either.
I begin to tell her a dream.
he begins to tell me a dream.
I am in the middle of a forest.
it feels wet, dark and cold,
at night but it starts turning
into maybe dusk.
I guess dawn but it feels like night is coming
right around the corner.
she is in front of a fire
on a log, there are logs set
out like it’s camp
or there are others expected.
and all she says is
wait, be careful
what you say
and holds her hands up.
she kind of walks towards me.
she is young but her.
but like also her child.
like, I mean, if she was
a child.
walking up,
hands out saying
be careful what you say.
and then I just wake up.
and then wake him up
“datura moon” or “the story of us”
there are two giant
bruises on each thigh.
I am careful not to hit them
with my fingers except
I already have
and I shriek.
you don’t even ask.
I spent most of my time
that late winter
searching.
what you would say:
combing through options,
in flux and in search of
weight.
and some guy,
a stranger
in my house, said to me
after I had given him reiki
for money, for rent,
for phone bill,
smirking on my apartment floor:
“Smile.” and added.
“What do you look like naked?”
and added
“How much to see?”
and I stood tall and robust
like a weed in Kensington’s
concrete garden:
stepped on but
won’t go away
and then
suddenly growing
into a gun.
not only that,
but suddenly
making rent.
fuck.
ok.
you don’t even ask.
“doors #5”
when you look at me
you see a long hallway,
you see a pointy
knob, you see
a mutable exit,
opening to close
and over
and over
and over.
“affection #2”
I know I’ll always be ok.
by purpose, my name
will be forgotten. my real name.
I am thinking back.
if you can’t keep up,
this is winter 2014. but it is also
winter 2017.
it is also summer 2020.
the day I arrived in the hotel
in the financial district of New York
to meet a Russian photographer
who promised me a night in an expensive
suite and a binding contract
that has been violated over time
without my awareness,
my nails were painted
blue to match my
bruised knees.
spread more, all the
way.
I thought that was
cute. he gave me a fishnet
black onesie I ripped a hole
in but wear on dates
to remember us by.
and even though
he took advantage of me
and you felt betrayed
by some unshaved labial
part of me,
I made my half of rent
for once.
in the car from the bus
stop on my smile
spread and the bickering
couldn’t dissuade
the new confidence.
the way money feels
in an envelope.
ok, chill.
fuck, I got rent.
“doors (#4)”
the third is ennui.
you become overcome
with a sudden fatigue.
almost as if you are floating
through it all
but not as happy or light
as that. like you’re being
controlled by a beam.
it’s more terrifying the
grip this new surrender has.
your arched back,
your upward gaze,
some kind of nothing
and the laughter is braying:
so deep and directed
at you.
“ennui”
At three pm,
I show up to confession,
just my tourmaline in
hand, hair covered
and I begin.
“intermission”
the first card I pull is the Magician.
say nothing about it.
my couch is stained from cat vomit
and chocolate ice cream
and smells
like fresh linen spray.
I am uncomfortable
at all times, at all
hours of every day
and this is no exception.
I am trying not to look in
the mirror behind you and
focus on the red wine in the glass,
bottle on altar, not comment
on eye color, guess placements without
ado, turning over cards to let you
know.
I try to explain to someone one day
what I am seeing in the mirror.
no one is there, I say this first
to myself on a walk
around, pass a little girl in pink dress.
fuck.
a haze, like a fog surrounding my body
begins to build and my voice,
almost like it’s been previously
recorded and then played back,
comes through me and I have to
repeat what she says.
but sometimes the track is off
so I am two seconds ahead of myself
and it’s hard to watch.
wait, stop, back
up. I’m muttering I think.
too complex.
stop myself when her brother looks.
no, don’t tell him that.
Australia looks better than Alaska.
that’s all I say.
we have some wands between us.
that’s all.
keep it to myself:
predicting
deaths of
others
and also
practicing
hugging people
when they walk
in the room.
“the magician”
I’m a sociopath,
I practice in the car window.
it’s 92 degrees and I
am only half melt,
half kept a bitch
in a yard but
with a water bowl,
no chain. polyester
pink collar says “PRINCESS”
watching the screen door from eight
am to nine dark.
see if they’ll wave me in.
there are two kids with snow
cones dripping down their arms
nearby. I smile
you sneer.
he wants to know everything.
I tell him everything,
I say, turning towards the
young girl.
she is wearing a pink dress,
has long uncombed brown hair,
stick legs, her older brother nearby
and is taken by
my insouciance.
my foul mouth that
yelled fuck
earlier for no reason.
my centipede tattoo.
he takes her sticky hand
and they race to the swings.
she turns to see if I’m still
wavering in the sun.
truth is, I’m actually
six feet in the ground
and only children can see
parallel lines.
I smile.
I’m wearing a mask,
not touching a thing,
sweltering. practicing
honesty.
practicing
hugging
people
when
they
walk
in the room.
“affection”
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