Tag: spilled ink

the skulk,
scent, need for slow chase.
salivation with a .
wide open stance,
arms spread,
lips like decanter,
trickling:
it is with love that I do this.

oh, you always say that.

*snaps* to wake
up.   tips a holy red.
I begin to grow inches and
let my long nails
trail the arms of strange
wool peacoats on my way to
the El,
or nowhere.
just circling Girard for fun.

It’s the middle of December
and I made rent.
I sort of grimace as
I sway the town, head to
toe in unbought clothes,
heeled boots,
hips flexed and
recently fucked.
let my hand hit the elbow
of an unsuspecting man,
unfucked, soon to
be turning around and
catching a flash of my
back, purple mock wool
and  hear the clack
of my shoes walk
away.
it is with love
they say.

“the honey trap”

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when do you decide to kill and what
stops you?
God.
pause.
uncertain
of myself.

and what do you want to learn from all
of this? she waves her hands over
the fire.
 pause.
 uncertain of
myself.
but there are the men
and they are giant
but it is not just men
the things that I’m bound
by, namely vitriol,
a weakness, how they
pervaded throughout my
gelid days when I could
have been comfortable in gray
cocoon save these little birds
and having no
right to be there, I can’t decide
if it is better for me
to keep my hands pressed
firmly together or

 will you teach me how to kill
my God?

or if it is better palms
open in subservience
to her.

“Hecate”

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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.

“the desert”

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what does all of this
mean to you?
wave to no one, fixed
on the corner of
an antlered profile
in the corner of a
smudged mirror.

you say it’s important,
ask me to tell it in
“linear order”
but how can I get away with
things telling stories
with honesty?
I have survived time
and cage and aged
in linear order.
my proof:
          I flex a ripped tricep
endless strength and

 brimming veins
that have learned how to
whistle when your girl
walks by me.

‘the doe”

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I remind you over text
and apropos NOTHING
you make sure to emphasize
to someone that my style is
abruptly
and in all caps and
that I enjoy the slam of
doors, interjections,
a hand tight around my forearm
and learning the local
culture before intercepting about
the fine print of the law,
how to skirt
a shadow, what a savior
secret arsenals.
I present the trunk machete,
then the painted switch blade.
I mean no harm
simply seething as I walk about
tracing panes, cracks in
paint and you hold me anyway
and in a way that I oblige;
loosely.

if I’m anything stasis
it’s anxious so
I at some point,
have to be blindfolded,
only feeling
the way the soil holds the bones
of those we’ve learned to mourn
in private:
eternally and quiet
with an airy tightness and security
like the rosary barbs the
knuckles when it’s altar
or when its storm and I’m all fist.
the way the heavens hold the pious,
the mob holds the riot,
or the torch of arrival and
the way the ocean holds all that
falls below that deep blue
surge of sea.
a gentle immensity
lifts me in my
fits and that’s the way you
see me still;
intense and poignant,
pointed in her comments
but rather distressed about it
all so generally forgiven
for her onslaught.

squall hits and I
drag you under to show
what made me.
you’re surprised by my
physicality and stature,
my apt command
of rooms
so far
only seeing me flit
and not sticking around
to see me pull out
the skewer and demonstrating
all the ways in which a weapon
works.
and in front of
everyone like I feel most
comfortable in combat,
agitating and leading
regimes before.
like I’ve never once
had an apprehensive
thought.

and tall.

“furor”

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let’s celebrate it:
our arrival to temperance.
throw an anniversary picnic
and let a year go by
shining underneath the map,
resplendent from the previous
events.


show up weekly and
listen, share, open
vulnerabilities but listen
to them carefully.
gain their trust before you
censure To wives and the ways
these advantageous
players play,
then let your serpent spine
sizzle in its case,
one day stand up,
call them all sexist,
balk at the coming year’s celebration,
do nothing but exit
and get all of the women
to leave.

“God”

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in Boulder, it was the same.
it was called “Unity.”
I was invited by a girlfriend
and I stayed.
we talked a lot about
life and mysticism,

the way currents showed up
for us. I wish I had
documented more of the tension
of the room. like the Gratitude meeting,
I stayed with meetings that forced
everyone to share.
they went in a circle.

I sat among them, mostly
men, always mostly men:
some young,
some old and reluctantly,
shared when it was my turn,
becoming chair,
inviting others. 

once I remember saying
I can be really manipulative
and a guy that I had reached
out to about something,
never responding to the message,
made eyes at his sponsor.
I caught it.

at the risk of being
labeled calculating, I still
liked being seen. 

“unity”

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first they elected me as chair.
no, first, I just showed up
regularly and shared
my leanings. I was seeking
divination and
wrestling with the
inconveniences of crisis
always followed with
a feeling of light
sprinkling above.
it was winter.
I was bundled but always
wearing tights.
they’ll say I trapped them,
I’ll say I felt trapped. 

the meeting was called
“The Gratitude Meeting”
and I loved how much we talked
about God. I only liked
hearing of God. I only
liked advice that invoked
prayer or some sort of
ceremony in which we
asked to be undone, wind
to take us or
water to cleanse.
the transformation started
with acceptance of
peak smallness, humbling,
then the idea that I could
touch the pink bubble
and move it.


the carpet had yellow
circles and there was a map in
the back of the room.
I sat facing away from it
most of the time. it
was about missionaries.
I began to sit in the
same seat and show up
every Tuesday.  you develop a
familiarity when you
become reliable.

I sat with it sprawling
above me so as they looked
at me, they might look
up to see a giant world
with red pins
stuck in it.

“the black book”
. 

*******

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after each meeting,
I stood awkwardly and
made small talk.
I would give almost any
woman my number and barely
kept up with what I had told
anyone but I
made efforts.


one day I got a fortune cookie
that said
“focus in on the color yellow
tomorrow for good luck.”
this meeting held
a lot of talk of God,
as it had a few catholics
and devoted disciples like
I, interested in the supernatural
themes of faith and
manifestation.
we spent many days
focusing on the third step
regardless of topic
and the passivity of that step,
being actually a willing action,
yet a passive stasis to uphold
is what kept me under spell.

made a decision to turn our will and our lives
over to the care of God
as we understood him


the carpet was blue
with yellow circles everywhere
and that’s probably why
I made it my home group
shortly after I got the fortune cookie.
after much reluctance to join
any of them, ironically,
I picked the only group
that was mixed but
mostly men.
just me and one or two others.
and these men were
not young, but old.

what they always ask me
is what my motive is.
I cannot simply say
that I looked at the carpet
and saw it was yellow
as someone spoke about the
divination of action into form.
I did not intend
to build the group,
amass it with females.

what I start, I do from
need, not forethought.
I move from depth,
a jaguar.

“God”

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express the value of life
in lines and
charcoal.

Add the girl’s lids and
tinted lashes,
fixed eyebrows,
nose.
her lace collar under
overblown cloak.
Hair tucked beneath hood,
chin tucked to neck,
subtract her gloom
with an upturned lip..
Highlight her cheekbones in rouge.
Add breath to an otherwise
achromatic lover.

Add her troubled partner in the backdrop:
blue-gray with a hint of black at the corners,
small silhouette of a rainstorm
receding over the edge of the horizon.
Add some balance to a ruminating giant.
Subtract her moans.
Erase her nose.
Sharpen the clavicle.
Thin the waist.
Add some plum to the lips.
Add some gaunt to her face.
Add a remark.
“This will not do.”

Grab the Hi-Polymer.
Try to capture the gleam
of mistakes everywhere;
birthmarks, pencil marks, oil sheen,
eraser flakes,
lines that are furrows or scars or
wrinkles, ruddy blotches
on the thighs,
dry skin on the feet,
swan’s neck,
bucked teeth,
knife marks and a
revised smile.
Never trust a man.

She is flawless.
Precise.
Analogized you.
Contrast to your optimism;
your bubble of assurance
that is dominating,
that denies a compact or an inventory
and drawn in shady undertones
to hide complicated desires.

Proof of hidden bruise
shoved deep inside the confines
of gusto and canvas
come to life in the luster of pencil dust
and uncomplicated process,
stretched wide
for the world to admire.
A deflated mirror.

She still has all her freckles
and you are noticing
a few things
about yourself.

“doors #10”

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