poets of wordpress

for some of us,
freedom was a legend;
a cage of smudged windows
and insatiable longing,
a crippled twirl,
pace
around the apartment
with a wand in hand,
repetitive crescendo in head
or the sudden broken glass

on the porch,
the
knot of fervent caterpillars
sliding through my guts and
prematurely spilling out onto the floor,
dissolving into pools of blood
like little girls ripped in pieces
in the midst of a tornado’s whirl
when they should have hid in the cellar,
waited patiently,
incubated like their wild brothers
anchoring in the moisture of a soft,
hemorrhaging sarcophagus
before they soar;
destroy their cotton packages
and hatch into thin air.
when the day is finally warm
and facing them, they
tear through the tether
unbridled in
exodus, unimpeded
and ready to transform into grand ideas
and take off without interruption
like the little girl’s
scorn;

now grown,
an envoy of acrimony
and the blue-black tones of
home and I pause here to ask myself
before I commit to the
flight,: what does metamorphosis
really feel like?
ask for knowledge,
wait for the visceral reply:
my skin
tearing at the thread of
each inside, each wound
stretching wide
for me to see, wide
like an orbit
enough to case the sky
and black inside turned
outside; now
black each wing of
bone and vine,
black my eyes and
black the sea I shoot
from; everything I touch is black
like me,
and I can see for miles.

“transition (pt.2”

February 6, 2019 0

when it came to me
you said I was all
muscled positivity
as if I didn’t hang myself once before;
as if I didn’t try to tell you

how cavernous a grin is,
or anything at all.
even though you are never sure I won’t
find that perfect bedsheet knot
or not or a razor or a kitchen knife
or a drunk night on the freeway and I’m
headfirst in the cement mixer
but I made it out of that
in jail and alive and I am
always palms clasped and grateful.
you say   you pray
with FERVOR as I finger the locket,
my brother’s ashed clasped
around my throat
and I hold onto
that same little lie
about choice.

I let go of the wild lavender
sprouting from your toes through
the hints of splattered paint.
there’s a meadow in your abdomen
coaxing foxes from their
holes    your knees knock mine,
sudden sting         close and sharp
  the way memory sits on your skull
then pulled back
how you held me
far away sometimes;
making wind happen
blowing kisses from the pines.
the bath is on, I’m cold.
you always say
I’m cold.
I beckon to the side:
you and I are from the same
arctic sky.
help me in so I feel
the frost of your fingertips
trace me;

my broken back to you now.
my nails are brown tipped and filthy
from digging myself out of my ancestral
grave and I’m spattered in the ,
sweat from a hard night’s day,
walking alleys, stalking shadows
and you’re truly unremarkable
these days save
the mosaic of carpenter’s paint,
some gray cement
garden: no flora, no fauna,
and even God told me to pause
and rest on my previous laurels
before I get carried away.
but i’m a martyr for this,
God,
I crave repercussion

I become a
yawning, clanking watering can
spritzing your open lips,
dolling up your stolid ground
to birth your stories:
pollen murals out of micro gestures,
extinguished longing that suddenly reignites and
I’m grabbing cattails from the gales to
comb out the tangles of your childhood,
fistfuls of mud    planting seeds in the
tiny cracks around your chest that my own
sharp-toothed grief left when you
muttered the first
no and I stepped a few
years back.
freedom will teach you how
to stay in all new ways.

there is no difference
between love and liberation
and some were born saints,
you say as you help me
in the mugwort bath,
the smell of rose and lavender.
I plucked the petals and dropped
them one by one
for aesthetic reasons.
not free of indulgence, but
patient your fingers make
stems in the water.

“hurricane”

February 5, 2019 0

all day long
I vacillate between intention
and immediate withdrawal;
my habits, my beloved

hermeticism and the double meaning of
everything and I’m
ambivalent about every choice
I’ve given myself over to–
even in completion,
I shrug.
let the wind take me.

now I am in blindfold,
a preparation and I am forced to
declare it.
your arms are free
someone drew two swords and
showed me and I am superstitious,
lining wrists with crystal rosary and
jasmine smoke and tea and
smashing my fists into a
mirrored wall to feel the way
(across)
it might when I finally
say something,

when I finally stand still enough
to embrace the thing that’s
said.

February 5, 2019 0

things I like:
symmetry and
the act of naming things,
the synthesis of dream and
disorderly thinking, and my bout
of many hidden rituals
like a drunk blossom,
full and suddenly
noticed

“Leo”

January 19, 2019 0

I was so broke
and depressed. sometimes I forget
that. it was the depression that was pinning me
to my apartment after you left;
keeping me locked there
keeping me imprisoned.
I let someone use my old Access card to pick their
lock so it did come in handy
after all.

I’ve put on no weight but I’m
satiated and all security is an illusion.
numbness had me
making more terminable plans
with bathtubs
bu some small joy always carried me:
my cat Alize,
always and

a used and discarded turquoise shelf
I found when I was out.
I hung it loosely on the wall,
without commitment and the wood
became immediately blackened by my incense cones.
the corners splintered and were
dripping rosary,
rarely dusted and topped with pictures
of my deceased:
Nana, Papa, Anselm Hollo,
other clients, friends I knew
in childhood and
unknown cousins,
guinea pigs,
first dog Pepper,
my first dead brother
or third dead uncle.
always drink or suicide,
something tragic when it comes
to my family but
I’m still here and
brave, I think.
in a few different ways
but I want cleansing

so I tear it from the wall,
I’m stripping the floral siding
with my fingernails,
peeling the paint back to white
to present to you
a dusted start.
I wear black skirts with lace
lining for the cats,
rain boots when I go out,
drawn shades with a smirk,
and nothing when you start
to come about.

January 16, 2019 0

i’ve been out to lunch since we got here.
it’s another change in seasons,
spring and everyone is out to
brunch celebrating
maternal lessons,

begotten lies, or if they’re more
triumphant; forgotten
spite. spring hats,
spring sandals,
spring grief,
sometimes things just go away
like missing pieces:
backs of earrings in the hotel room
at your youngest cousin’s wedding,
origami florets you sprinkled at your mother’s ankles
when you were just learning how to fix
the pancakes to give appreciation;
diplomas, expired passports, birth certificates,
various certifications,
everything a lover gave you,
hand me downs, or cute owl
pajama sets that were xmas gifts
callously discarded in the great
throw everything the fuck away fest.
I have nothing left.
anything that reminds you of your
lineage: scrapbooks and family
heirlooms, voicemails from your dead
brother pleading for you to
come back, the ashes swinging from
your neck, the letter from
your dad,

they don’t really mean much.
you’re here and you can prove it if they ask
with this giant gaping hole in the center of
everything
that you at last had the guts to crack;
the diamond she stole,
all winter blooms,
the time you had left,
grand ideas slipping out of your ears like ripples of
eureka!
plopping on your floor for the ants to devour
before they ever land.
you should have tried harder.

because love is boundless I can’t possess it;
it consumes me with its humility,
strangles like history,
swallows like tidal waves of
unyielding southern humidity,
and I can’t escape it.
feelings for the flesh that steal me are so
palpable, like ghosts, I’m moaning
exorcism! and synonyms for
hurry up.
the climax is the body’s clever parapraxis,
and love?
I want this thing gone

so I can be empty with my tea
and good ideas,
alone.
I knit a sweater full of verses I’ve never heard,
wrap it tightly for the winter.
wear the world like vapor,
my fortune cookie says
and something adds:

my dear girl, you are so lonely
you have created all of this
(the world just falls from my shoulders)
you are mourning events,
people, places & things that never existed
(cut it open, pull it out)
wipe those ruby red eyes
and take a look around
(before it disintegrates)
but my house is a burning building
so I better bounce.

I had one fawn over me
but he fell in the giant yawn
I stomped in the yard
and like my bright wishes,
he’s also passing me by
carrying something I don’t get
because it’s real and it’s found
he is holding it and I am
eyes shut tight catarina
thinking about it
again when someone grabs
my arm.

“how to forget everything day 67”

January 16, 2019 0

It started in the city, or at least, it felt like it started in the city. I had marched for a long time to get to this party and all along I was whistling. Nothing brazen and loud, but quietly. I guess it was more like a hum with the occasional whisper in the wind as I pursed my lips together in an effort to make noise. I wasn’t making much noise, in fact, it felt like a long creep to your place. Letting my arms dangle, I moved my hands in a mild gestural manner: an old habit of mine. I have a nervous disposition, I told him once over Thai. My fingers stretched against my tights so I could feel the nylon. It was more dense than nylon but my shins were lined in goosebumps. My legs were wrapped in a thicker fabric like leggings, but sheer so the wind cut through. I don’t remember carrying anything like a book-bag or purse. Room floated around me and it was past dusk, it was dark. It was night when I arrived. I had marched a long time through the city to get to this party; this specific party in which I was going to confront a few of them at once. There was a guest list and I was on it. I was dressed appropriately although I did not look at my face in a mirror so I cannot tell you what I looked like only what I felt like: like vapor rising past an edge. I was shifty.

The last thing I remember before turning the corner to get on your block was that I had no idea if I had driven or not. It was strange. I had the sensation of getting out of a car earlier but truly I didn’t have any recollection of it. It felt like I had walked for miles. I dissociate. When I opened the door to your place, it felt familiar; not the place but the way I entered. It was as if I always open the door on my own. There was a gathering in the center and you turned to greet me with a chilling apathy and I smiled with every tooth. I embraced you which was out of my character. Perhaps to soothe a beast in you. You said:

You look taller.

That’s when I looked down to see my boots and my knees, a little shaky and wrapped in black, and then I felt the sweater as you turned to put your arm around my waist and I held it there. There was one moment in time in synthesis and I held it there. This is what I am wearing. Even though you delivered a tepid reception, you grabbed me like I was yours. You brought me closer to the kitchen but a dark swarm took over my body. I looked sideways to follow it. My friend Reagan approached me from the other side. I’m being flanked. I was distracted long enough to ignore the person skulking out the back door.

“Hi!” she embraced me like we were sisters and pulled me to the couch.

Funny how recollection tricks you. There was someone else in the kitchen who slipped out the back door as I sat down but I would tell you then on the couch that never happened. I would embrace Reagan like a friend even though I barely knew her. I would tell you it was comfortable even though I felt set up. I looked down at my dress. A dress. I’m wearing a dress.

“How are you?” she smiled brightly in my face, her dark hair hanging over her cheeks.

There was nothing memorable about her except her green eyes. They were beautiful to look at in my moment of rising panic. I swallowed like I was swallowing an apple core and I held her hand like we knew each other forever. Turning to look for him, she squeezed it.

“Let’s catch up, hon.”

I kept turning my head to understand the new layout. There were candles lining the floor to the stairs but the staircase was on the opposite side. When I turned back it also appeared that the stairs were in the right place even though there were none near the front door. It was like the room was cut with mirrors and drapes. It felt like a stage. I don’t think there is an upstairs.

“ I want to see my reflection,” I suddenly said.

“Hahaha omg,” she patted my leg. “Listen, I don’t know why you would trust him. He’s an alcoholic and manipulative.”

I swallowed again and stood up. I should confront him. Where did he go? I walked away from her and realized the entire party had cleared. It was just the three of us. He greeted me without his shirt and I saw a tattoo. There were two. The bigger one, I couldn’t read it though.

“Are you staying or leaving?” he said.

His eyes were blue and that was normal. Blue like a fresh paved lake of ice.

“I’m leaving,” and I shuffled past Reagan without acknowledging her again.

I headed towards the door that was on the right side even though the kitchen and stairs were misplaced. I stepped out before I could change my mind, before I could stop and pause and demand my reflection. Let me use the bathroom. There were no cars anymore. No streetlights or streets. I held the hem of my dress, once feeling thick like a sweater felt thinner, lighter, more spring but still black. I had come to the party in all black and now I was shivering. It had dropped a few degrees in the forest. I was staring at a forest. I was staring at a row of trees and yellow eyes were popping out of them. They were slow, methodical and walking towards me. My hands were gripping the handles of a bicycle. I can’t bike through this. Turning around to plead with him, he was already closing the door. My eyes narrowed at his side as he leaned against the frame.

“Can I just stay here a while until the wolves go away?”

He shut the door without a word. I turned to face the forest I had just somehow safely walked through and pretended it was a street. I pretended the people were people. The people were hungry. The entire pack settled at the entrance and watched me. Gripping the bike, I turned back to make sure, yes, he shut the door and yes, he wasn’t coming back. A giant red oak square with a brass knocker stared me in my face and the man I had been chasing vanished inside. I looked down.

I become so enlightened at the turn of it

I start writing with a desperation.

That’s what the note on my arm said.

And what did the note on his ribs say?

I interrupt myself. I am scrambling to remember the whole thing before it fades. It is 5:30 in the morning and I am in pain; not from separation but from untended rhythm. Maybe I never noticed my dreams had cadence or style or meaning, yet, I have pages full of them. I begin again. I have to begin again. I stopped myself from compulsively flipping through last year’s journal. Sitting is my weakness. The morning overcomes me and dawn is nice. I am too tired to move so I stay. It was a tattoo on his chest, not his ribs. He had two and I could only read one. They were connected over his body like a map.

I tapped my head with my pen and sat. Sometimes the morning is foggy and I just need a second to breathe. Coffee is too stimulating and I just need a quiet moment to breathe. One was so giant I couldn’t read it like it cascaded across his whole body, I reread my note from earlier and I put the pen back on the paper. Mania is a curse of the unrested and dutiful investigator. Jaw clenched already, my migraine set in but I continued. It said:

One was so giant I couldn’t read it like it cascaded across his whole body, and the other said love exists with or without hope.

January 15, 2019 0

you are God-drawn,
celibate,
obsessively
testing yourself and
binded by conviction.

you are wrapping yourself
in your lovers’
unhinging,
your lovers’ veins,
your lovers’ disdain
for the way they scream your
name into the pillow
and you’ll be around
come never.

you are distant.
you are giant.
you are waving your hands
in the air and calling it
time magic.

oh, you are quiet in your cave,
becoming whatever you say
you are.
becoming whatever you say.

be careful what you say.

“the magician”

January 12, 2019 0

I went from being a frozen tundra:
algid, wide and growing fields of ground to cover with
no visible tracks to follow

unless the wind was kind and left
the prints
but it wasn’t often.
taciturn but for some
icy speech and bleak;
caustic prose in
squalling breezes that freeze
and stick to your cheeks,
harden bite your tongue
in frostbit chomps so it takes a while before we completely cut those
meek coughs off
just as they start.
before they form into spit,
white noise, handwritten
cards,
I sprout into a raging sun:

precocious and blazing
hot, I become
a long bending desert to
warm you up:
fields of sand to cover,
infinite high noon run,
no moon to come,
hollowing the others with
deprivation,
promising mirages,
a wide and weaving
ever-longing
desiccation,
sudden sidewinders and a
slow and draining
drip that never hits and
dehydration,
never an inch of rain and you
find every trap I laid.

I start by slaughtering your brothers
in front of you to see
if you can stand it.

“sekhmet”

November 13, 2018 0

With a natural lethargy, she put her makeup on slowly elongating the whole process by several minutes. She wasn’t used to wearing it. Moving her neck like a snake upward from left to right, like she was wrapping it around a trunk or leg, she admired the stretch first, then the movement itself; hypnotic and quiet and binding. She stopped applying the powder to stare. Motionless, she admired herself head on. The blush she chose was dark; a shimmering burgundy that ran across her face and cheekbones in the shape of a bruise. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear examining the soft waves falling over her shoulders first as they moved, and then again as they settled. She wanted to see what she looked like as she approached; in stillness and in motion.

“That took too much time,” she said out loud.

Moving her head back and forth in a slow no gesture to see what she looked like disagreeing, she could feel and see the skin of her lips cracking. She eyed the chapstick on the shelf. She wet her lips with her tongue. We must move on. There was nothing she did for anyone without motive and no one was around to touch them yet. Setting the bamboo brush on the sink, she ignored her dry mouth and her thirst, and picked up the mascara. Carefully, she applied the wand to the eyelashes of her left lid and then immediately stopped to examine herself again. Unbundled and free, her thoughts had been leaping ahead of her. It was distracting. They were being seized by something else; something distant, either imaginary or future she could never tell, but something tugging at her sleeve. Look behind you. She reached for the twisted, plastic straw from the sink’s ledge and began twirling it in her fingers on instinct. Letting herself be overtaken by the fake memory; the fake way he held her, the fake way he smiled, the fake way it felt, she felt the rush in her chest.

“Stop it,” she barked at herself.

Staring at the mirror once more, she held her own gaze in trance.

“My name is Catarina Kacurek,” she practiced again.

She said it a couple more times until she was satisfied with the way it felt rolling off her tongue. Naturally. Nodding, she put the straw back on the ledge and began to apply the mascara to the right lid’s eyelashes. It’s always like this. She couldn’t see the clock in the bedroom and was thankful. I’m late, she knew. Taking her time anyway, she could still feel the electric bubble running up her spine to announce its arrival, announce its bones were growing over her bones into a grove of wands. I have things to do. She set the mascara neatly back in her makeup bag and pulled out the eyeliner. Dragging the skinny black pencil across the top of her left lid first, she felt a breeze, a draft from a hidden place to the left of her. What the fuck is this all for?

As she fawned herself, praising the way her eyes grew from small and doting to big and black and full of infirmity, she heard a car backfire somewhere in the distance. She placed the pencil on the sink and waited. Goosebumps trickled up both arms. In her spine, her bone grove of smoke and scream and sudden life, she felt it.

“My name is Catarina Kacurek. May I come in?” she practiced again, feeling the backfire of other every other thing.

October 8, 2018 0