take me and
stuff me in a bag;
in the rapture of a girl
first kissed behind the ear,
never once being touched there before
and tell me you’ll carry me across
the whole ocean
if that’s where
I need to be today.
I’m laughing and
you say the most ridiculous
things like
(and you turn to me)
you say to me:
this will never end,
right?
“the blue book”
“I have opened it.”
–Alfred Tennyson’s last recorded words, October 6, 1892.
and letting her inner
child suddenly scream in
public, what became of
noise trapped:
an ode to tombs
in reverie reflected
back.
marrow cage pinned beneath his
sex and a
a grab for steady wages,
three thousand pages of
unique rejections,
and my wrists are bound
together by a little
self denigration.
a noticeable attachment to water,
currents or anything that’s
palpable,
a noticeable longing for windows.
my veneration for absence.
a noticeable longing for door knobs,
race tracks, wide open space
to act out the disordered thought.
my admiration for sadists
and what they take,
an unwavering self-beratement
tightening the joints of bone bars,
my masochistic streaks
and the interminable door
slamming shut.
less concerning to everyone
involved:
a child who paces the room in silence
hugging herself and her twisted straw,
murmuring at the walls
and a noticeable absence of
anything palpable; namely
them, fingers,
love.
“doors”
but to you there’s no difference between
decimation and the resolve so you’re
palms out begging for it
and here comes the reaper
wearing your blood.
—5/11/2018, notes found, self to self
“I’m always knives-out,
a chain of razors folded
behind each gesture.
You who loves me: are you
paper? Or plywood? Or stone?”
–Christopher Morgan
I never write about blossoming but
I’m seeing inflorescence in
my dejection:
my censorious portraits
cascading and
my unpolished toes
at the edge of the kitchen
where the carpet meets the tile,
an unwashed bowl of almond butter
next to my tea,
empty half of a house,
my patient sponsor and the
tail end of my
frantic texts public mania;
an affinity for
inscripting every feeling
somewhere permanent.
begin to plan the next
black mark on my body;
a large alligator named
Milo. I’m flagrant when
offended and they
say I turn violence
inwards.
I could have been
sitting still,
saving face,
explaining through private sessions,
watercolor, the grace of
long sleep, ten am and
fresh and lucid still
immured in dream.
she mentions doing the
dishes she mentions
deep breathing
I see a bud in the daffodils
you left, a water filled horizon
that distorts my perception
of what “leverage” really means.
and the big picture,
obscured by my choice of lighting;
all fluorescent,
it’s cheaper
blinding everything overdone
with explanation and
cyclic editing,
ornate,
constant litter.
I liked some things about us:
two dirty bowls to wash
but saw clearly.
we were soaked in
soft lighting and I held
your gaze,
your torso,
your incogitant rage
that I managed between fits of
self soothing and pleading,
placating.
mouthful of bitten tongue,
some little good timing,
ready for
hi there
some little soft haunting.
for you,
always:
a toothy smile,
walk for miles,
fingers crossed for some
little soft revenge.
you?
I think about you.
3.
why don’t you keep this real simple and complete the blue book?
I couldn’t stand the sight of me
so I watched the willows
perfect their melancholy
some days
when I walked
to the edge of the city and back.
they carried it naturally
and I tried passing windows
without looking at my face.
it’s dark at four and
forget about the moonlight,
or a headlight
or my sun lamp.
my body sees no glare or
person and
my head is drawn
in hoods.
I am their winter rival.
my pores were lined with bentonite
and steam and suffered
prayer; a nihilist effort’s
worth so my skin was
exfoliated but my heart
was still blood-thirsty
in knots.
Nana’s rosary draped across my wrists
and most of my fingers stayed crossed
to become a space that contains little breaths
of God personified.
I scrubbed the dirt from every inch
of my scalp,
the bridge of my nose,
under my elbows,
my kneecaps.
any crack that light could fit
I tried to rinse it first.
sometimes I took the long way to the store.
29 degrees and someone drew a giant sun
blanketing a tulip garden
on the side of a wall in an effort to,
I only assume,
preserve summer and cure their own
raging seasonal affective disorder.
I focused on the colors.
tried to pay attention to the subtle shift in greens
as the stems got closer to photosynthesis,
the yellow stamen, orange petals,
tint of turquoise in the grove of trees
hovering in the distance,
the way everything tilted towards the right
on instinct
with no speaking masters
and no shadows beneath them.
I leaned left towards your block
focused on feeling the weather change in my tights
and mock wool mini skirt
in hopes it would
cure my malingering,
would halt my bloodlust,
my persistent inner child
bleating with her hands out
looking for touch and I am
suddenly spades out in your dead garden and
running forward,
something pinned between
my teeth:
lines, the way that
pauses form a book,
my thirteenth draft
to you.
“Saturn returns”
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