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rip wrap]she likes to watch her hands blossom like morning glories perched on her wrists
and she likes the burn of forgetfulness as it falls through her esophagus
with its arms extended, nails digging into the unknown colors of her
throat. she likes the click clack of her ankles giggling as she
stumbles through life with one eye poking through her fingers
whispering where are you where are you i've not anything
but my brain my good parts my knows my ifs and he's
been gone and i miss the eyes on eyes when
the teeth go click clack my hands go clap
clap like a hand on a heaving chest
like hands fruitful with minor keys
and heavy swings like clap goes
your life like snap a
photograph and i
never wanted him
violets never tasted so good so good-
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 day
only to watch my hands expand like stars
octopidal in their birth blooming
and withinme,my melancholy,i tell them they're gods
and they forget how to breathe before they forget
that i'm lying;
,"(i take your words like tithes for my ephemeral indulgence
-to execute them one by one into a pyramid at the edge
of my spine. it feels like the sky is choking be
neath me, i am the one with the calloused
hands, i dream of oceans as my mouth
fills with sand. i am the one on
my knees in the distance, ask
ing my hands to be gods, o
god, o violets in the
foggy mirage that a
ppears are you my
like devout shril
ling bodies in the
sea, my family is the
re,my mother is y
ours now and t
he next and th
e next and the
one in the unmar
ked grave she is bea
utifully german take
them all o wake
in my heart
awake me o
o heart in my hands
like grainless sand
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'll
I'll feel unjustly empty.
But it's okay I guess yeah it's fine and
My ability to communicate disjointedly is withering
right in time for those soft,slyly rendered question marks.
I would like to say everything they want to hear
so they can quaff down every dripping form of yearning
and then purge later for some sympathy.
I'll sit in an odd masochisti
i said, "it's alright, i stillTo know completely in yourself
that you have love inside of
you like a clamorous reservoir-
and to know the pressure of
inner space reluctant to
explode like light from
to know the only neck
your fingers will ever
articulate with is
that of a
I will reside inside of your
boyishness like an ever
darkening sea ready to
coagulate like the
blood that stirs
within 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 beautifully
blooming plant, will he know the dry cracks of dead presidents in
his 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 my
face or the expression that trickles over my great-grandmother's
face as i smile and she breathes my you look like her and it escapes
to the floor and i know you yes i know you in my bones like raw sunlight
welcome homes and relentless laughter good vodka and better poetry to
sink deeply within me like your smile in that polaroid where i can
only see part of your face and the reflection of some unknown
person in the background or perhaps something in your hair-
what is it that holds me to the ground but blurred realizations
and the dimming stars that explode infinitely
within your eyes?
Stop:There is nothing better
than the sound of you
falling into me like
a suicidal freight
train releasing its
grasp on the atmosphere
-laughing through clouds,
devouring tracks in its wake.
,if you listen closely you can hear
the shuffle of my brain like a
shovel bearing coal and you
will know that I don't
even know you
The Things I Want to BelieveAn old man plays the violin outside because music is for everyone
The coins you throw in the open case are merely for his collection
The graffiti on the walls is for promoting social justice
And the broken lock on my front door is really a complex metaphor for
My open mind concerning society
Those spiders are my pets
Their cobwebs-modern art
The bills lay untouched only because I enjoy toying with bureaucracy
Cabbage is my favorite meal
and canned food is a time capsule I get to destroy
He comes over early since he needs me too much
When 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 confinement
behind strict white
cut to fit a traveller's pocket,
squeezed in on myself
where you peer around folds
to glimpse a meaning.
I don't want to be
recorded, sorted and optimised,
placed against the others waiting
to be discovered
or left preserved
or maybe lost.
Take me from them premature,
toss me to survive
and see myself reflected
many times a different angle
in prismatic clarity
though from uncertain origins.
Tear me from my bounds to share,
transpose me to your breath.
Prop me up
so that I may see myself live
in thought and speech and action
of the everyday.
Don't let me be another one of them;
I'm not content with seclusion
I was made to be crumpled
in 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 insect
which 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 also
and the riding boot and the riding. Somewhere
your 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 wearing
is composed of ten thousand individual units
of is and polyvinyl and Red Lake 40,
none of which like you. Or would like you
if 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 faces
all 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 time
and you're where you're supposed to be,
you'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 garden
or 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 high
is the blue depth of pain,
like the pressure in your lungs
from the clear nitrous mask
when they tear out your teeth
and you laugh through the holes
in a bruised, splintered jaw
for the tickles in your brain
and the bubbles in your blood
like a flute of champagne
at a wedding...
And the gaps left behind
in a moth-eaten soul
like a sheet on a car
that's been out in the yard
for twenty years or so,
like a veil on a virgin
or 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 behind
in that sandblasted soul
can be filled by delusion,
'til it runs out your eyes
and it soaks through your gut
with a mean, vengeful glee
are the things you hold tightest,
for the one who has gone
is now best remembered
by the shape of the shadow
of the pale silhouette
of the hole where they once filled your heart...
that's why it's vulgartrust me. i'm a product of
two, eating at the eyes that
watch me from
collars hanging neatly,
barely, plainly behind
and trust me, i've
written thousands of words
to replace the hard skeleton
missing at the curve of your back.
you broke each section at the
greeting of a new word gurgling
at the hollow of your throat--
each new disease tickling you
inside-out, your neurosis
aching at cameras
and gesticulating at the
sight of highways
spelling your death in
a matter of seconds.
run, jump, cracked,
so, at this sudden branching
of spite and malice
from your trunkless core
i toss you up to the eager shelf
waiting to cultivate your many
poison leaves into a garden that
heals the rich.
create wealth from the selling of your
every tissue and you'll be
thanked for every move you've
made, to simply stand at the
pasture meant to plant
you. we'll make careful
cuttings at the base
of your limbs and
extremities to be buried and
grown anew into f
Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams
except this one.
This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.
I'm going outside to make a grass angel.
And poetryeither you or i
will always know the difference
between sin and sacrifice
in the right time
from hate to noblesse
qui n'oblige pas, I traveled
and you remained
in the right place
migration, 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 hard
to let go.
I'll pry my dreams
away from the great
expanse of space
that I'll never explore.
I'll loosen my grip
on the way the moon
looks when it glows
behind a passing cloud,
and the breathless
before it comes back out.
I'll let go of the globe,
a miracle in blue and green,
and all the places
my traveling eyes landed
and longed to see.
I'll farewell that sudden
explosion of spring,
when the world turns
green in one bright,
I'll whisper goodbye
to every meteor shower
I won't see, every song
I'll never hear
on the radio.
But I suspect that at the end--
when I've come full circle
and my fingers that clung,
tiny, to my father's hand
have finally learned to let go--
the last thing left in my palm
will be you.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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