my life is returning to me
through the sensation of turning corners
in different cities in different stages of light
innocuous sites untethered from why

i find, i am living through peripheral people
watching high, knowing them without any of it
being true
finding my self at an old job,
but the furniture has moved
all configurations tried
another girl in my eyes

june comes closer
but my head is down, i am carving through the past
a finger on the network
without why

i’m just trying
to read about the future, in fact
it was an article about
the end of the world,
but she contorts my vision back
a tick, a latitude
registering each synapse
the will to fire




1. the identification of key words,

widening, thinning, effacement, sweep, contraction, transition

2. the discovery of minimal context,

She can’t remember going through it. She can’t remember pain, blood, or mucous. She has nothing to say and, further, she had no problems. After I was born, she was happy and nothing more.

I think this could have to do with being a rape survivor, but I don’t know. I may tie too much to her rape because she ties nothing to it. She describes it too as a moment she moved on from, or, she does not remember grieving. Or, she has never grieved. She does not make much of it.

She does not make much of it. I fill what I perceive to be the voids of her depression with explanations, rationalizations, analyses, and interpretations. My goal is to tell her what is missing. I am programmed like this.

I sunk into those depressions with my form. From far away, we form a composite whole. As my smallest parts vibrate, coerce, and produce, I fidget with her. My fears are for her.

In the doctor’s office, I begin to panic if I am left alone for too long. I fearfully spread my legs. I sweat, and in the past, I pass out. I cannot stand being out of control of my body. My mind tries to go away.

3. the choice of appropriate transformations,

It will be all my own, and there is not much further I can go than that.

4. generation of responses in the absence of keywords, and

Characterized by the willful positioning of one’s feelings into a subdermal form. This pattern is in a language that some other programmers will understand. Results in daily periods of high-frequency anxiety, worthlessness, and “nothingness.” Prior periods of sexual confusion, followed by sexual malaise. Codependency. Criticism.

5. the provision of an ending capacity for ELIZA “scripts”.

I have no control. The program ends.


for now, you are more fish than me
your belly full of liquid
i breathe it, i eat it
and you swallow it

i hear it, and you hear it
muffled and meaningless to you, underwater
but you’ll stick to my translation
you have no one else to listen to

will you want to keep yourself? or, will that come later
when desire inherits your head
taken with the theme of living

aren’t you frightened?
i am afraid to fall asleep
to the darkness you are feeling
kicking at the soft cell of me
hands gripped tight and wondering,
without wondering
what time it is

there is a hope in this project that makes
a contradiction of me
asking to keep something i promised to borrow

but the cat appears, and she seems
much more content to let love go on without reserve
in its extraordinary coordination with impossibility



sung to the tune of a swooning 40’s love song:

harboring you…
appearances are…benevolent 
but you
are confined, mine

i saw you the other day
in a soft prison
you were asleep, you have slept the whole time
since i found you

grief must make one tired
eating energy to know
what matter will be made

in a burrow, so light, floating with the tide
cradled in white, dense pockets of fat sand
seeing that lump at the shore, you,

i could say
it’s the restrictions, the limits
of what we know
that make us who we are

but knowing that
you are eating from me
moving my way
captive, you see
what can i say
of kindness

child / parent

mother, father
they are a basket brimming with fruit

it fills me
feeling love for the first time
in father’s cool reserve
telling me already things i should not have heard

mother, the ember, slowly burning through the carpet
and no one is looking
see the orange, dying light
that is mother’s dull shine

“everyone their own patient
and own surgeon” ring around
your finger, my finger

consciousness came to us by fractions
and was made by the shatter
of voices who gathered tandem
the rules of form

so there are no bad poems and there
are only good poems

time to begin working; i am up
and pregnant in the morning
stepping strange and heavy
to the bathroom, eager
to get you here, angry
to finish this

for the child
who looks in the mirror
to hate me, sometimes
and slowly regains trust
in the deviant gods
who brought her here

that was us,
mother and father