sui generis
and i think, perhaps
that while i have not yet assembled into any means of
apotheosis,
i have had my ascian moments
(vituperation finds me
inevitably)
and in the nescience between
comfort and confidence
i find a rather fascinating reassurance--
i breathe
and i think, perhaps
that while i have not yet assembled into any means of
apotheosis,
i have had my ascian moments
(vituperation finds me
inevitably)
and in the nescience between
comfort and confidence
i find a rather fascinating reassurance--
i breathe
upward-reaching, downward-looking eye-hands
and it’s found in the pale folds of my
oversized sweater
(only the tights and socks)
and lost in the candles too pretty to burn
find my apathy towards wanting in my
anodyne fingers, the well-hidden branches
the shift
smile lies are dulcet
the voices in the walls are
awake with me
seep into the frames and out
through the painted lips
cracked glass and pillows
waltz at midnight
to the sound hands make
when they ought to clasp
but don’t
and it’s found in the pale folds of my
oversized sweater
(only the tights and socks)
and lost in the candles too pretty to burn
find my apathy towards wanting in my
anodyne fingers, the well-hidden branches
the shift
smile lies are dulcet
the voices in the walls are
awake with me
seep into the frames and out
through the painted lips
cracked glass and pillows
waltz at midnight
to the sound hands make
when they ought to clasp
but don’t
obsidian ink-void (ezra)
and death
is what persuaded her
from my trembling mind-pen
(ink spilling sanguine)
pile the bodies and
preserve their blood in vials on
endless shelves in the basement of the ribs--
shave the skin till it’s all gone
teeth sharp and nails uncut
a feline glint of obsidian eyes in smoke
and liquor
(shallow palms
schadenfreude)
a martinet strict
to masochism
drain the heart and pump in
the hum, soak up sorrow
and secrete stoicism
(beset the mind
strip the sanctums)
before you, the void
forces itself on lips
the body is possessed
the vessel is lost
the soul shelters
in fiend’s ulnas and radii
and death
is what persuaded her
from my trembling mind-pen
(ink spilling sanguine)
pile the bodies and
preserve their blood in vials on
endless shelves in the basement of the ribs--
shave the skin till it’s all gone
teeth sharp and nails uncut
a feline glint of obsidian eyes in smoke
and liquor
(shallow palms
schadenfreude)
a martinet strict
to masochism
drain the heart and pump in
the hum, soak up sorrow
and secrete stoicism
(beset the mind
strip the sanctums)
before you, the void
forces itself on lips
the body is possessed
the vessel is lost
the soul shelters
in fiend’s ulnas and radii
like kindness and honor (sage)
and opened, heavy woodgrain portals
with small, thin fingers
to bridges ornately carved in ivory --
the houses are built up in hemlocks and oaks
a guide through the forest and out into the plains
of pale green grass up to my knees
the elks bow to us —
the presence of earth and life
we are supple, with equine strength
and pierce with turquoise irises
there is no darkness here
(wisdom is the blanket
to shroud our small shoulders
patience, tolerance, peace)
there is no one as she is
quiet, a smile
so soft
she’s a ghost made of autumn and springtime
and the days between seasons
aspire to the powers of intelligence, humility, and deadly competence
quilled into the earth
beneath feet
she is a silent spirit
born of surfeit, sage
and opened, heavy woodgrain portals
with small, thin fingers
to bridges ornately carved in ivory --
the houses are built up in hemlocks and oaks
a guide through the forest and out into the plains
of pale green grass up to my knees
the elks bow to us —
the presence of earth and life
we are supple, with equine strength
and pierce with turquoise irises
there is no darkness here
(wisdom is the blanket
to shroud our small shoulders
patience, tolerance, peace)
there is no one as she is
quiet, a smile
so soft
she’s a ghost made of autumn and springtime
and the days between seasons
aspire to the powers of intelligence, humility, and deadly competence
quilled into the earth
beneath feet
she is a silent spirit
born of surfeit, sage
smoke-colored electricity (sharpened sky)
and forks—
fingers in sockets
fizz out a stretch of corn rows
carving through corrupt portcullises
made of pulled-out teeth
my eyes sever (shrivel) and fall out
roll around and shot
to knock the frozen bubbles full of sky
into baskets full of wires learning to swim
(a block to the system
building towers out of
trading cards and
trebuchets out of
toothpicks)
i’m not ready to move on
so keep your voice down
and let the drawbridge stand open
the gates won't close
but i will become
thunderstorms
flooding through
to drown the
citadel, to
sink incisors into
geysers churning with the recycled
juice of me, the blood left over, the vapors of war
and forks—
fingers in sockets
fizz out a stretch of corn rows
carving through corrupt portcullises
made of pulled-out teeth
my eyes sever (shrivel) and fall out
roll around and shot
to knock the frozen bubbles full of sky
into baskets full of wires learning to swim
(a block to the system
building towers out of
trading cards and
trebuchets out of
toothpicks)
i’m not ready to move on
so keep your voice down
and let the drawbridge stand open
the gates won't close
but i will become
thunderstorms
flooding through
to drown the
citadel, to
sink incisors into
geysers churning with the recycled
juice of me, the blood left over, the vapors of war
destruction of storms (the nature of regret)
and far too suddenly
regret swooned and fainted at my feet
and i knelt
gazed in the eyes and saw only halos
before dissipating into the wind
resurrecting in my eyes as rain
and in my chest as thunder
and in my heart as lightning
decisions bark back and forth between the storms
and the caterwaul throws me from my sleep
and far too suddenly
regret swooned and fainted at my feet
and i knelt
gazed in the eyes and saw only halos
before dissipating into the wind
resurrecting in my eyes as rain
and in my chest as thunder
and in my heart as lightning
decisions bark back and forth between the storms
and the caterwaul throws me from my sleep
time between breathing (force)
and if i wanted it
badly enough
the world would float in silence
and even the soreness
at the cross of the spine and scapula
would find ease in the songs of absence
and rest
and don't mistake the prevarication
of sound
for the reticent nature of my touching teeth
(they are hollow and respond to the quiet
with a visceral lack of vibrations)
and if i wanted it
badly enough
the world would float in silence
and even the soreness
at the cross of the spine and scapula
would find ease in the songs of absence
and rest
and don't mistake the prevarication
of sound
for the reticent nature of my touching teeth
(they are hollow and respond to the quiet
with a visceral lack of vibrations)
the psychic
and very, very slowly
turn the tarot card to up-face
reveal the layers beneath the skin
be visually assured that
letting go of a self i could be
will harvest
and carving words of healing
into the back of the throat
will only mute the internal aspirations
(though i have drawn the tellings of healing,
my blue-green-grey eyes will blink, think
back to the time i felt the world fall away)
and i have not been kind to myself
you say all you thought about in high school
was getting,
and that damn, coke is the best but only
if you’re not paying for it
i suppose i’m kinder than others
(it must only seem more caustic)
and very, very slowly
turn the tarot card to up-face
reveal the layers beneath the skin
be visually assured that
letting go of a self i could be
will harvest
and carving words of healing
into the back of the throat
will only mute the internal aspirations
(though i have drawn the tellings of healing,
my blue-green-grey eyes will blink, think
back to the time i felt the world fall away)
and i have not been kind to myself
you say all you thought about in high school
was getting,
and that damn, coke is the best but only
if you’re not paying for it
i suppose i’m kinder than others
(it must only seem more caustic)
a dying poet's castle (and speak)
and and and
words come out
exotoxins go in
sifted through
the filter, the semantic
grate, the purifier, the
taught vellum from the hide of
the balladeer
(such sacrifice, to detach from
the vessel, to become only a mind
to ink the pelt with the internal)
to allow weight to gather
beneath the sightseers
to drag them down
to the trembling
tips of fingers
and i’m not a temple but a
locution fabrication
i’m a dictionary duchess
and my subjects keep me awake at night
throwing pencils at my windows,
lancing themselves over my drawbridge
my wall is made of idioms and it’s
failing to uphold my defensive diction
the troves of gold are invaded
(there are no poetic protectors
no dragons)
so the knives screen the pyrite
rift through the vocabulary
sneak away with the elite
braving the shin-deep blood
(just a deterrent
a manifestation
aftermath)
free to inhale-exhale
what great lengths we
poets exert ourselves
to exist and express
and speak
and and and
words come out
exotoxins go in
sifted through
the filter, the semantic
grate, the purifier, the
taught vellum from the hide of
the balladeer
(such sacrifice, to detach from
the vessel, to become only a mind
to ink the pelt with the internal)
to allow weight to gather
beneath the sightseers
to drag them down
to the trembling
tips of fingers
and i’m not a temple but a
locution fabrication
i’m a dictionary duchess
and my subjects keep me awake at night
throwing pencils at my windows,
lancing themselves over my drawbridge
my wall is made of idioms and it’s
failing to uphold my defensive diction
the troves of gold are invaded
(there are no poetic protectors
no dragons)
so the knives screen the pyrite
rift through the vocabulary
sneak away with the elite
braving the shin-deep blood
(just a deterrent
a manifestation
aftermath)
free to inhale-exhale
what great lengths we
poets exert ourselves
to exist and express
and speak
indefatigable
and occasionally
breathing is the anathema
that brings me (ephemerally)
to my (bloodied and bruised) knees
but for each descent there is resurrection
and occasionally
breathing is the anathema
that brings me (ephemerally)
to my (bloodied and bruised) knees
but for each descent there is resurrection
traffic on the overpass and under the fingernails
and while alacrity
is still
quite far out of reach,
my hands stretch, spreading out
like skeletal maps, each bone
finding breathing room, each vein
a highway being built
even as the cars continue to drive
(trying to fix a train as it moves down the tracks)
and they disassemble,
they pull themselves apart
at the joints,
to build a floating bridge of
little white hopes,
thin little ribbons
licking the potential
to fly
(but the road is anfractuous,
and they’ll drive forever,
circumnavigating the potholes
and finding their way back
to where they started)
our cognitive maps don’t have
blueprints for the fingertips,
for the hands, the palms
with their intersections made of
aged creases
abandoned freeways
backed-up parkways
and empty driveways
the traffic light
only turns to red
the traffic light
only turns to red
it’s dark
and it blinks (winks)
and i speed beneath it
(click and flash)
and while alacrity
is still
quite far out of reach,
my hands stretch, spreading out
like skeletal maps, each bone
finding breathing room, each vein
a highway being built
even as the cars continue to drive
(trying to fix a train as it moves down the tracks)
and they disassemble,
they pull themselves apart
at the joints,
to build a floating bridge of
little white hopes,
thin little ribbons
licking the potential
to fly
(but the road is anfractuous,
and they’ll drive forever,
circumnavigating the potholes
and finding their way back
to where they started)
our cognitive maps don’t have
blueprints for the fingertips,
for the hands, the palms
with their intersections made of
aged creases
abandoned freeways
backed-up parkways
and empty driveways
the traffic light
only turns to red
the traffic light
only turns to red
it’s dark
and it blinks (winks)
and i speed beneath it
(click and flash)
supernova insomniac
and it’s not about counting
nightmares anymore,
it’s conquering
the notion of not sleeping
altogether
(so the dreams will never come)
and instead become the corpse
become the flesh of stars,
the bones of moons,
the blood of the neptune sky
dozing eyes can’t see
the dying black holes
that they’ve become
and remove the insides,
fill the canonic jars
with the stardust imagery
behind the sleepless mind
(scintillating with the
tremors of a broken orbit)
and they will await the day
when the forever rest opens the lungs
and fills them with dead suns--
solemnly stitching them shut
with constellation thread
and the nebular needle
and it’s not about counting
nightmares anymore,
it’s conquering
the notion of not sleeping
altogether
(so the dreams will never come)
and instead become the corpse
become the flesh of stars,
the bones of moons,
the blood of the neptune sky
dozing eyes can’t see
the dying black holes
that they’ve become
and remove the insides,
fill the canonic jars
with the stardust imagery
behind the sleepless mind
(scintillating with the
tremors of a broken orbit)
and they will await the day
when the forever rest opens the lungs
and fills them with dead suns--
solemnly stitching them shut
with constellation thread
and the nebular needle
casse-tête
and thats when the
head-heaviness,
the underfoot lethargy
of the mind peeled away
the skin of my ears and
almost removed them
completely
(deafening sensitivity)
stopping my breath steeply
(after only two miles due to the blood)
and in short, as say the
french: casse-tête
(broken head)
and when the wrinkles
pulsed in my hands
and felt like they were
swelling
(perhaps to prepare, to brace for impact)
(the smoke that floated back to me)
and the quickening
of the chest
and the burning
of the lungs
and the failure
of my mind to keep itself
safe in this head-heavy
labyrinth, might just
give me the sleep
i’ve been missing
and thats when the
head-heaviness,
the underfoot lethargy
of the mind peeled away
the skin of my ears and
almost removed them
completely
(deafening sensitivity)
stopping my breath steeply
(after only two miles due to the blood)
and in short, as say the
french: casse-tête
(broken head)
and when the wrinkles
pulsed in my hands
and felt like they were
swelling
(perhaps to prepare, to brace for impact)
(the smoke that floated back to me)
and the quickening
of the chest
and the burning
of the lungs
and the failure
of my mind to keep itself
safe in this head-heavy
labyrinth, might just
give me the sleep
i’ve been missing
red-eye, stone-mind
and collected eyelashes
on a cluttered desk,
the remnants of rubbing red
eyes, temples made of stone
(smoothed like river-rocks from constant massage)
and a twisted throat,
a screen
shaking hands don’t
kiss, they tremble up the
arms and into the core,
frosting the heart and
burning the oculars
and between lines
read the knots in the
hunch, the contortion of the
snakes sinking in the spine
(shaping the vertebrae and pushing them apart,
pulling them together with each hissing breath)
and to breathe is to
push the skin into the
fangs, and to move the
head is to knock rocks together,
perhaps to crack, to linger
in limbo—stains on hands,
or blood pooling, waiting to be
noticed, through the back of the head,
out to collect on the philtrum
and collected eyelashes
on a cluttered desk,
the remnants of rubbing red
eyes, temples made of stone
(smoothed like river-rocks from constant massage)
and a twisted throat,
a screen
shaking hands don’t
kiss, they tremble up the
arms and into the core,
frosting the heart and
burning the oculars
and between lines
read the knots in the
hunch, the contortion of the
snakes sinking in the spine
(shaping the vertebrae and pushing them apart,
pulling them together with each hissing breath)
and to breathe is to
push the skin into the
fangs, and to move the
head is to knock rocks together,
perhaps to crack, to linger
in limbo—stains on hands,
or blood pooling, waiting to be
noticed, through the back of the head,
out to collect on the philtrum
her perfect
and in the cadence
of her walk, the
feet filled with effulgent energy, and
didactic dithering of
confidence and humility--
(a perfect balance)
that perfect pace
found in wise soles,
and in the
unimaginable plethora
of angles and depth of
fields in which to find
poems in her photographs,
i found my greatest friend
and in the cadence
of her walk, the
feet filled with effulgent energy, and
didactic dithering of
confidence and humility--
(a perfect balance)
that perfect pace
found in wise soles,
and in the
unimaginable plethora
of angles and depth of
fields in which to find
poems in her photographs,
i found my greatest friend
neck fever (it's not asthma)
and only in the shifting
valleys of the neck
is there the uncomfortable
bellicose of heat, of contained, arcane energies
(and don’t you dare let them cadge their way out)
because [no, dear, removing the scarf or wrapping it tighter won’t help]
they’re waiting to be pacified by the catatonic fear of
dying
and only in the shifting
valleys of the neck
is there the uncomfortable
bellicose of heat, of contained, arcane energies
(and don’t you dare let them cadge their way out)
because [no, dear, removing the scarf or wrapping it tighter won’t help]
they’re waiting to be pacified by the catatonic fear of
dying
pyrrhic
and in waking from a dream
twelve times between the hours
of four and six (in the morning)
the presence of the fears
illustrates the propinquity of
naïvety, the redolent place of
human that still exists,
conflating our dalliance with adult
and childhood
(that we regret ever breaking up with)
because that fear within dreams is
real, more so than that of the spider
on the wall, or the
fugacious nature of paper deadlines, or the
harbringer that we dread hearing from.
(forgive me, I only wanted a crystal ball)
so while I lilt in times of sleep,
dancing with the fragility of dreams
that turn to nightmares,
I dare to love the day,
and to took to the sun,
to blind me and offer me a panacea,
to hush me,
to let me continue on,
to forget,
and to beleaguer the fears
till I am all that remain.
and in waking from a dream
twelve times between the hours
of four and six (in the morning)
the presence of the fears
illustrates the propinquity of
naïvety, the redolent place of
human that still exists,
conflating our dalliance with adult
and childhood
(that we regret ever breaking up with)
because that fear within dreams is
real, more so than that of the spider
on the wall, or the
fugacious nature of paper deadlines, or the
harbringer that we dread hearing from.
(forgive me, I only wanted a crystal ball)
so while I lilt in times of sleep,
dancing with the fragility of dreams
that turn to nightmares,
I dare to love the day,
and to took to the sun,
to blind me and offer me a panacea,
to hush me,
to let me continue on,
to forget,
and to beleaguer the fears
till I am all that remain.
summer
and for the
past few months,
things have been a
blur of household
chores, part-time
pseudo-jobs,
waking up from a
lapse in time
and discovering I had
been daydreaming
for two hours,
simultaneously
breathing,
simultaneously
drowning
and for the
past few months,
things have been a
blur of household
chores, part-time
pseudo-jobs,
waking up from a
lapse in time
and discovering I had
been daydreaming
for two hours,
simultaneously
breathing,
simultaneously
drowning
not careful enough
it had a name,
that cherry blossom tree
in my grandparents yard.
it surely had a name
(all magical trees do)
haze of morning
rains of petals
after a night on
the white couch
next to the wall of
windows.
everything was pink,
whether or not i liked it
(no, give me green)
and she was still
margaret, then.
he misses me,
he emailed
(texts are too difficult)
and misses having us over--
margaret and i
beneath the swaying
branches of pink and white,
catching the falling
drops of petals,
careful, but not careful
enough, not to let them
slip through our fingers.
it had a name,
that cherry blossom tree
in my grandparents yard.
it surely had a name
(all magical trees do)
haze of morning
rains of petals
after a night on
the white couch
next to the wall of
windows.
everything was pink,
whether or not i liked it
(no, give me green)
and she was still
margaret, then.
he misses me,
he emailed
(texts are too difficult)
and misses having us over--
margaret and i
beneath the swaying
branches of pink and white,
catching the falling
drops of petals,
careful, but not careful
enough, not to let them
slip through our fingers.
how to be internal (fingertip thoughts)
sometimes i have to
force the blood from my veins,
and filter the words that
my fingers scratch
into the dirt beneath the lonely branches
of the didactic trees,
and sometimes i have to
push the pin into my temple,
to slowly leak the thoughts into
a pillow, drained into a vile,
just in case I lose my mind
(though perhaps in my paranoia,
it was stolen)
sometimes i have to wring the words
from my lips
(and leave them so sere I can’t speak for
months)
and drag the body of my word-wrought
martyr through the street,
just so the world could see
that I’m enervated, and not have to say a word.
sometimes i have to
force the blood from my veins,
and filter the words that
my fingers scratch
into the dirt beneath the lonely branches
of the didactic trees,
and sometimes i have to
push the pin into my temple,
to slowly leak the thoughts into
a pillow, drained into a vile,
just in case I lose my mind
(though perhaps in my paranoia,
it was stolen)
sometimes i have to wring the words
from my lips
(and leave them so sere I can’t speak for
months)
and drag the body of my word-wrought
martyr through the street,
just so the world could see
that I’m enervated, and not have to say a word.
tropics
and if you’ve ever tried
to climb a palm tree,
(not even a tree but a grass)
then you know the bones
that break
and the nails
and the feet
and the gritting
of teeth.
under sand
(smothering)
under intense heat
sweat and saltwater
and sunscreen in pores
and between fingers
in mouth
and eyes
and ears
and down into the lungs
with the sand
drown in the air made of
heat, the ocean
depths,
open sea, release,
and sink into the wet towel,
the shady place, the place
under the palm trees.
and if you’ve ever tried
to climb a palm tree,
(not even a tree but a grass)
then you know the bones
that break
and the nails
and the feet
and the gritting
of teeth.
under sand
(smothering)
under intense heat
sweat and saltwater
and sunscreen in pores
and between fingers
in mouth
and eyes
and ears
and down into the lungs
with the sand
drown in the air made of
heat, the ocean
depths,
open sea, release,
and sink into the wet towel,
the shady place, the place
under the palm trees.
the absence of things
and feeling
the absence of things,
of brushstrokes,
of pixels,
of prints and paintings
that wait in frames on
walls i’ve never seen,
they’re mine, but not--
created, by me,
loved, by others,
me, indifferent,
the world, judging.
and the absence of things,
of colors,
of faces,
of places, graces and racing
my heart to the depths,
to the darkness of the deepest blacks
to determine meaning in my images
they pick apart my impulsive
decisions, my impulsive
da, da-da, my pointilism, impressionist, my
marks on a page, and
for those who go so deep
as to find themselves in
the absence of things,
the white of where
my marks impulsively
a v o i d e d c o n t a c t,
then you start to see
the presence of things not there,
and the absence of things
you were meant to see
and feeling
the absence of things,
of brushstrokes,
of pixels,
of prints and paintings
that wait in frames on
walls i’ve never seen,
they’re mine, but not--
created, by me,
loved, by others,
me, indifferent,
the world, judging.
and the absence of things,
of colors,
of faces,
of places, graces and racing
my heart to the depths,
to the darkness of the deepest blacks
to determine meaning in my images
they pick apart my impulsive
decisions, my impulsive
da, da-da, my pointilism, impressionist, my
marks on a page, and
for those who go so deep
as to find themselves in
the absence of things,
the white of where
my marks impulsively
a v o i d e d c o n t a c t,
then you start to see
the presence of things not there,
and the absence of things
you were meant to see
dying waves of children
squinting becomes as common as
breathing, when the sky is
darker than the star-lit,
sun-speckled ocean, whose eyes
are moons, and ears are
conch shells, and its mind,
a collection of colorful,
luminescent fish and stones and
saturated dunes of mystery,
much like some dreamers i have met,
much like the dying waves of children.
squinting becomes as common as
breathing, when the sky is
darker than the star-lit,
sun-speckled ocean, whose eyes
are moons, and ears are
conch shells, and its mind,
a collection of colorful,
luminescent fish and stones and
saturated dunes of mystery,
much like some dreamers i have met,
much like the dying waves of children.