headache

perhaps my own negligence will kill you
bending down around the corner of our little house
while you are snatched from the lawn

or my breasts will dry
and i’ll watch you starve
all i’ve loved, uninhabitable

june, will you hang on to me?
there is no way of knowing

still spooked in a house alone
wary walking the street
my fears are still a child’s
what will you know of me?

 

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essay on my body

some parts of me are free, and those parts are necessarily dark
i mean it. no light originates from inside my head. only from the outside. i need light to make sense. in my guts, darkness. i like it.
i get to thinking about creation; how pitiably hungry we are about it.

my free parts cannot be read by anyone but me
do not be threatened
make no mistake, i like to share
all the things that other people know about each other, all the things that keep us familiar, i like that too

and inside, all the while, i’m routinely writing what cannot be seen
i throw letters out to a black pond
i paddle out in vigorous sentences
i am seasick with words sometimes
i want to harbor something challenging, unbearable
and bring it to light

when it’s done i am relieved; i look down at it
my freedom is full of error, fearful, and always changing.

all the little things that make the big things
happen in blackness
i am from a dark, wet, place
smelling like an animal
disgusting, intentional

requiem

when we met here, on earth
there it was (defining “spirit”: a gathering – a process of cellular, pathogenic, mammalian, or galactic import, etc.)
we are here for the one who fled us

at this point, we sing your name
god was heard
some are crying
this is what we called you
one unalone
after all, it goes on

in your death
paradox made contact
and we understood where you went
as though you were made known to us
at the underside of anything unseen
there it was made obvious: material exists in a space assumed vacuous

called upon to confront our selves
turning back to try to spot
the one who broke away

we are coming for you!
no one goes on without us (defining “love”: transmutive reel. or, access.)
no one is me, no one is you (defining “god”: a gathering – cellular, mammalian, et al. bridle of wonder.)

plural

i can’t bear to write a theme where two end up the same its untrue of you it is! matter of fact interrupted by your name as the punctuate of breath is this why words are born or what is this what you are for

and all the same it was a story
parsed and strung
and sad-looking on its own

notice how the story sharpened in each hand
and some were roused by it and some were utterly complacent at it
others squealed on

but you sat like a cat
it was nonsense
but that was who i was then

squalor pulsed behind the word squalor was the baby eyelids and dead elbows the waste released in machine gun in chopped bodies in bridge jumping old dying smell what is singular is alone and stinking but pushed to the back of living word the punctuate breath the tongue the great aperture! why words are born or what is this what you are for

 

 

 

dark matter

understood by the study of its own effect
the thrown dish in the kitchen
curiously spent, the reflection such the affect

words congeal in raucous ways
it shows them thrust into light, their position
becoming fixed, severed through a critical lens
huddled in fear of finite mass

when hushed by waves
walked backward through dust
curious this suspended plumage wake from

though love crowds in
and through the common pressure
change exposes matter through pleasure

anima

low to the ground
and keen to breathe you through my mouth

spilling along the bottom of the doorway
printed on towels, handles, and sheets

it crescendos down through hallways
missing you now and pacing

interpreting your times:
either like the eager beating of the thrush
you’ve been
or, the complacent pulse of the nest hen

you are home, i know first
by your smell
brimming by warm cultures

those bottoms of your feet
when you have gone long walking and
in your genitals as you sit
such long hours on top of them

every inhalation
deeper lost in me
the equator calls
becoming me somehow

low and heavy near the ground
the keeper of your smell