rip wrap]she likes to watch her hands blossom like morning glories perched on her wristsand she likes the burn of forgetfulness as it falls through her esophaguswith its arms extended, nails digging into the unknown colors of herthroat. she likes the click clack of her ankles giggling as shestumbles through life with one eye poking through her fingerswhispering where are you where are you i've not anythingbut my brain my good parts my knows my ifs and he'sbeen gone and i miss the eyes on eyes whenthe teeth go click clack my hands go clapclap like a hand on a heaving chestlike hands fruitful with minor keysand heavy swings like clap goesyour life like snap aphotograph and inever wanted himagain andclick clacktheWorld wasmade andmyBed wasmade andviolets never tasted so good so good-because[
I have watched typical insectsI have watched typical insects from my bed. With all sentient movements crumpling sideways like a man (his leg recently crushed by mostly heavy things), the insect climbs with pious intentions.and I, parallel and twisted like a victim (her important insides recently crushed by mostly weightless things), extend my hand with the poise of eleven swans, all featherless and exceedingly noiseless.I know each insect like a birthday marked on my calendar. As visual transmissions collectively shudder at blood-filled movements, I stop; the crouch of flight seems an exquisite miracle. An insect's pause at such relief,to know,hope is simply winged and humming. The ethereal reality to no teeth,hair,skin but insideout aviaries to carry small omniscient things -My hand retracts and collapses into place. The worst part about hands (hands grub and grab,greedy and resistant,they touch faces in black and white and then slap faces in red,hands pull triggers and strings,of hearts and balloons and
,"and withouti fall in love at least eleven times a dayonly to watch my hands expand like starsoctopidal in their birth bloomingand withinme,my melancholy,i tell them they're godsand they forget how to breathe before they forgetthat i'm lying;
,"(i take your words like tithes for my ephemeral indulgence-to execute them one by one into a pyramid at the edgeof my spine. it feels like the sky is choking beneath me, i am the one with the callousedhands, i dream of oceans as my mouthfills with sand. i am the one onmy knees in the distance, asking my hands to be gods, ogod, o violets in thefoggy mirage that appears are you mylove blackeninglike devout shrilling bodies in thesea, my family is there,my mother is yours now and the next and the next and theone in the unmarked grave she is beautifully german takethem all o wakein my heartawake me oheart oawakeno heo heart in my handslike grainless sandawake gasping)hello
I hate the questions you askI hate the questions you ask me with periods at the end(underneath my clothes is a raw duplicate of your expression);
IgnotusIt is quite possible that sleep is my only positive enigma.It is also quite possible that my stomach aches at the thought of vertigo.I want to believe in the walls that surround me;stuffed with burning electricity and cotton candy insulation.I gripped that edge once.The edge of wanting feathers and aerodynamic appendages.Ripping eye blue seas together with every hollow persuasion that allows me to-I don't know.bend spoons with pure need and cry like they do in the moving pictures.I want atoms to halt.All at once.In a fascist sort of way.And I'll giggle to myself incoherently and whistle to myself half-heartedly and I'll and I'llI'll feel unjustly empty.But it's okay I guess yeah it's fine andMy ability to communicate disjointedly is witheringright in time for those soft,slyly rendered question marks.I would like to say everything they want to hearso they can quaff down every dripping form of yearningand then purge later for some sympathy.I'll sit in an odd masochisti
i said, "it's alright, i stillTo know completely in yourselfthat you have love inside ofyou like a clamorous reservoir-and to know the pressure ofinner space reluctant toexplode like light from1941-to know the only neckyour fingers will everarticulate with isthat of abottle;I will reside inside of yourboyishness like an everdarkening sea ready tocoagulate like theblood that stirswithin my guilt.
for yesterdayone day: will she awake with strangers pacing inside of her?and he, with his hands much like the roots of some beautifullyblooming plant, will he know the dry cracks of dead presidents inhis hands as a reminder to take his boots off at the door?-i have the feeling inside of me that i have always known you.whether it is looking in the mirror at my hair or the shape of myface or the expression that trickles over my great-grandmother'sface as i smile and she breathes my you look like her and it escapesto the floor and i know you yes i know you in my bones like raw sunlightwelcome homes and relentless laughter good vodka and better poetry tosink deeply within me like your smile in that polaroid where i canonly see part of your face and the reflection of some unknownperson in the background or perhaps something in your hair-what is it that holds me to the ground but blurred realizationsand the dimming stars that explode infinitelywithin your eyes?
Stop:There is nothing betterthan the sound of youfalling into me likea suicidal freighttrain releasing itsgrasp on the atmosphere-laughing through clouds,devouring tracks in its wake. And,if you listen closely you can hearthe shuffle of my brain like ashovel bearing coal and youwill know that I don'teven know youyet.
The Things I Want to BelieveAn old man plays the violin outside because music is for everyoneThe coins you throw in the open case are merely for his collectionThe graffiti on the walls is for promoting social justiceAnd the broken lock on my front door is really a complex metaphor forMy open mind concerning societyThose spiders are my petsTheir cobwebs-modern artThe bills lay untouched only because I enjoy toying with bureaucracyCabbage is my favorite mealand canned food is a time capsule I get to destroyHe comes over early since he needs me too muchWhen he closes his eyes I know he pictures us"I love this" is a euphemism for "I love you"And the money on my nightstand is only because he cares
I Want to be ReadI don't want confinementbehind strict whitecut to fit a traveller's pocket,squeezed in on myselfwhere you peer around foldsto glimpse a meaning.I don't want to berecorded, sorted and optimised,placed against the others waitingto be discoveredor left preservedor maybe lost.Take me from them premature,toss me to surviveand see myself reflectedmany times a different anglein prismatic claritythough from uncertain origins.Tear me from my bounds to share,transpose me to your breath.Prop me upso that I may see myself livein thought and speech and actionof the everyday.Don't let me be another one of them;I'm not content with seclusion I was made to be crumpledin a strange kind of love.Being seen is not enough;I want to be read.
Everything I LearnedEverything I Learned at Graduate School(or Toward an Object-Oriented Ontology)Screw this shit.Stick insects are the center of the centerless universe.There is a universe at the center of the centerless stick insectwhich is also a ● (which is also a universe).Circles exist, but nothing travels in them.I am not posthuman enough. I am too much.That's all right. The unicorn is alsoand the riding boot and the riding. Somewhereyour childhood is being beaten by a brave little toaster:the always already deposed new monarch of being.If you count all the permutations of infinity,you will have an infinity larger than infinity.This is related to finding the nearest 7-11.Probably the milk was rotten from the start,but it doesn't enjoy thinking negatively.The trucker hat you are wearingis composed of ten thousand individual unitsof is and polyvinyl and Red Lake 40,none of which like you. Or would like youif what we were talking about here was social re
In the WildernessDown the street they've got a trash fire burning,and it gathers the wind and paints ghosts upon facesall orange and black, lucid and lascivious.This ain't the Motor City though, it ain't the Bronx...truth be told I live outside of town, outside the loop,and people on this street rarely speak English,and I rarely understand what they're saying.And I see them, and I think, "America the Beautiful"I don't really know what's expected of me,sometimes you find yourself places you'd never imagined,find yourself locked by gravity in a space of timeand you're where you're supposed to be,becauseyou're where you are.And if that's not enough for you, you don't deserve more.I don't keep my lawn mowed, I don't tend my gardenor stain my hands with earthy soil. I grow mostly weeds,and resilient Elm that are easier to grow than to kill.Around here, you don't make yourself a target.You don't project to the world - "here I am, look at me"around here, you keep it quiet. Maybe you say, "
The Hole You LeftA bizarre kind of highis the blue depth of pain,like the pressure in your lungsfrom the clear nitrous maskwhen they tear out your teethand you laugh through the holesin a bruised, splintered jawfor the tickles in your brainand the bubbles in your bloodlike a flute of champagneat a wedding...And the gaps left behindin a moth-eaten soul like a sheet on a carthat's been out in the yardfor twenty years or so,like a veil on a virginor a shroud on a corpse,maybe coming, maybe going,never staying very long,like a Hallowe'en ghost but I digress...No, the gaps left behindin that sandblasted soul can be filled by delusion,'til it runs out your eyesand it soaks through your gutwith a mean, vengeful glee are the things you hold tightest,for the one who has goneis now best rememberedby the shape of the shadowof the pale silhouetteof the hole where they once filled your heart...
that's why it's vulgartrust me. i'm a product oftwo, eating at the eyes thatwatch me fromcollars hanging neatly,barely, plainly behindcurtained closets.and trust me, i'vewritten thousands of wordsto replace the hard skeletonmissing at the curve of your back.you broke each section at thegreeting of a new word gurglingat the hollow of your throat--each new disease tickling youinside-out, your neurosispeaking pretentiously,aching at camerasand gesticulating at thesight of highwaysspelling your death ina matter of seconds.run, jump, cracked,quick roped.so, at this sudden branchingof spite and malicefrom your trunkless corei toss you up to the eager shelfwaiting to cultivate your manypoison leaves into a garden thatheals the rich.create wealth from the selling of yourevery tissue and you'll bethanked for every move you'vemade, to simply stand at thepasture meant to plantyou. we'll make carefulcuttings at the baseof your limbs andextremities to be buried andgrown anew into f
And poetryeither you or iwill always know the differencebetween sin and sacrificein the right timefrom hate to noblessequi n'oblige pas, I traveledand you remainedin the right placemigration, with fists,violence, revolt and poetry.out of the revolving doors,my sun shines now
Letting GoWhen I die--if I have time--I'll try hardto let go.I'll pry my dreamsaway from the greatexpanse of spacethat I'll never explore.I'll loosen my gripon the way the moonlooks when it glowsbehind a passing cloud,and the breathlessstar-lit momentbefore it comes back out.I'll let go of the globe,a miracle in blue and green,and all the placesmy traveling eyes landedand longed to see.I'll farewell that suddenexplosion of spring,when the world turnsgreen in one bright,wake-up week.I'll whisper goodbyeto every meteor showerI won't see, every songI'll never hearon the radio.But I suspect that at the end--when I've come full circleand my fingers that clung,tiny, to my father's handhave finally learned to let go--the last thing left in my palmwill be you.
When a bat poses for an artistWhoever the taxidermist was,he had a dash of God in him.And not just because he was a creator-he was a destroyer most of the time.He gave an Egyptian fruit bata funeral fit for Pharaoh, smuggledthe last bits of skin still armed with bonewithout awakening blood flow, filledhis eye sockets up with onyxfound imperfect with cataracts.But it was okay with that bat.The taxidermist was oneof those gods with mercyin his thunderbolts.He let the bat enjoy its lifelessnessuntempered for a few daysin the back of a freezer. Therewas enough time to let a soul thaw outunder no pressure. There was enough timeto let frost collect in the place of dust.He was one of those forgiving godsthat the Greeks never knew.They would have never known to callhim Taxidermist, the arranger of skins,but only skins that fit just right--a reverent grandparent at a sewing machinewith the right words of advice savedfor after the final stitch was staged.Snakes would keep sheddingtheir skin becau
normlessnesstonighti became numband immovable.i haveno-one towrite andno-one tolove andi amfat andcontentin thisderangement.i amorganicallystunted ;i have beencut andpruned toa delicatelyblunt point ;my rosesbloom inmilk-whiteanomie.and whenflowers startto freezeand diein senselessbone-whitemeaninglessnessi willnod andappreciate.
After TuesdayElizabeth,I will not live like this anymore.Not anymore.There's a small Universe to the West,that sits idle in Autumn,I will be there.Hinged on all sides,by suicide maplesthat fall from the trees like droplets of blood,and that old Raven(the blackbird that taught us Canastaon the lawns by Cedars Lodge,)he hovers quietly above me there, in the azure skylike a guardian,and those two shining moons Elizabeth,the ones we happened uponthrough the windowpanes,between our screams and shouts last Tuesday night,in this Universe, those moons weep misty vanillasacross a falling horizon and I am free,yes, I will be there, in the West.And when I am there, Elizabeth,you cannot hurt me.Chris.
0: kim0:and then she smiles at you.(your beheading completed--your blood in her smile)
For the ChildrenIf my spirit flies at the end of Wintergo down every day to the soil and watch for the sprouts to risewatch their green fresh moist leaves reach upwards to the sunknow in your heart their tender roots wriggle downwards to waterand if you think of me then, perhaps I am thereIf my spirit flies at the end of Springgo down every day to the moss beside the bubbling wood brookfeel your body sink into the soft greenness as you listen with careknow in your heart the song of the brook carries the healing of fireand if you think of me then, perhaps I am thereIf my spirit flies at the end of Summergo down every day to the meadow where the fires burn brightlet your body feel warmth on one side and the other cool then turnknow in your heart the soothing warmth and crisp cool ride on air.and if you think of me then, perhaps I am thereIf my spirit flies at the end of Autumngo up to the top of the lonely mountain where the world lies belowturn and turn slowly to hear the echoes of col
She says I'm cuteSometimes, I want to take the lush from your lashesAnd crush it under my workmen's boot;The sheen from your lacquered poutGround dull by the efficient might of these chompers;The slink of your stance, sex of your motionsDissolved by the clumsy encumbrance of my embrace.These traits, I best love and hate:For as long as you are lovely, you can leaveThis oddly brute-She says these gargantuan feet of mine are cute.
fuck 2 am.this is not a reminder ofthe way the windcreepcreepcreeps under your window pane,of rank stale ginand cheap lipstick stains oncrinkly cream collarsof daydreams/of vanilla sex/ofscreamingOHGODOHGODOHGODinto the stillnessabove your parents' bedroomor of nightsupwonderingif there is something you've been missingwith cracked lipsand the taste ofpiss-and-vinegar on your tongue;the bitter rattle of chainsmokein the back ofyour lungsandyou will realizethere are better ways to spend yourtwentieth-thirtieth-fortiethbirthdaythan alone anddying(or dying alone)
My arteries will growMy arteries will growover your hands likepragmatic ivy-an eruption ofbloody silk.And as the daycloses with herlegs,I will laughinside of myskin.