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When my eyes open, I think the sun
higher & sigh to have wasted our day. Hard
wood under vinyl presses to bone & tender
stripes beneath each arm argue pleas to not
meet crutch again, ignored for want to smile

Into your face when you inevitably poke
at them, betraying a younger you taking sticks
to snakes & yellow jackets & blonde girls with
mean streaks & straight teeth. Time slows,
allowing struggle over making & drinking coffee

With so few hands! Allowing struggle over
my presence, your perpetual sketches mapping
my mindset, but those rocks point too sharp
for boots twice dishonored, so I shrug to save
novice knees & ankles the rolls of missteps, &

I just want to drink & buy shoes! Public
appearances of everyone’s most backhand-adored
uncouple – Carry the cup & refuse the cash,
clichés of sex, except more Xs across calendar
squares = less you wrapped ‘round me; When these

Four fall away, which exchanges receive
permits, which cross to aching outlaw? Your
face when trying ((failing)) to hide a smile,
that smile, wielded when ambushed, “tickled”
by my little cracks & creases – the you who

Proves your tongue a liar, you who inspires
me to eat too much to make intimacy of eyes not
dodging last. It takes a day & change, but you-
to-me courtesy demands fingers twisted in hair
for capital-PG Proper Goodbye, the scream of

Front doors opened to open doors to leav-
ing those fingers tangled ‘til tomorrow; maneuver
to lean, Wide Eyes, catching breaths & smiles
at resumed contact, consent, though foot tapped
evolves to foot tracking back – Part II of

Today’s picking up things & relocating.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Clean up to clock &
go out, reflect, having dropped my name into
foreign conversation for 7 &1/2 hours; call
to ask if shared sadness let me off the leash,

At least loosened grip since you left me.
I repeat your last 3 words then “Godspeed in
Getting Some” while summoning whatever Good Karma
I have floating all at once to will this holy
holey pocket of Universe to grant you None: I break

In 3 or 4 & lie, lip-device-ear, because
you have a schedule to keep, parts cast, & when
caricatured, I fit co-star Friend better than
any other reader. Every outside face, raised
brow & parted lips, anticipates co-hosting, but

You’re the boss, Applesauce, so return to
calling Summer an Internship, I’ll revert to
Residency & scrape Grace from bootsoles, learning
the art of eggplanting, & not touching the menu.

 

Science claims six simple machines, I guess because the human heart can’t breathe under the label “simple,” & these exist co-dependently, rotating, spiraling down to one or two who harmonize like wind through car windows at 70 miles per hour & my yawp that this is over ((Edition 113 of 335)).

A screw is a cylinder wrapped in an inclined plane. A screw is a piece of metal sunk into two objects, relying on the physics of a self-locking property — the screw can be pulled upon, even twisted out of place, but will hold the two objects together until fully released. A screw is a sexual entanglement involving no feelings ((in at least one participating party)). Stripping is a possibility & a potential game changer in all definitions.

Potential problems with Simple Machine #1: A screw converts rotational motion to linear motion, wandering to focused direction, but the direction is determined by the hand exerting the initial energy. Human error allows that linear motion may follow the wrong line, locked in place until the screw is completely withdrawn.

A wedge is two inclined planes, frequently used to lift & separate two objects, creating distance where once none existed. Distance can be claimed via wedges wooden, metallic, verbal, or human-girl-sized & -shaped. A wedge is a conflict, creating tension within a relationship, often made into a point of argument, then left unmentioned for significant spans of time, though ever-present in the mind of at least one participant in the relationship.

Potential problems with Simple Machine #2: Other use of the wedge is to fill already-existing, unwanted space; the insertion of a wedge into a gap fuses the two objects divided, three parts now holding fast where each once existed independent, until outside forces extricate one of the three, at which point the other two invariably fall apart. If the hand exerting the initial energy inserts the wedge into the wrong position, his construction disentegrates.

An inclined plane is a flat supporting surface tilted at an angle, used to move heavy loads over vertical obstacles. Heavy loads vary from love seats to beds left empty; vertical obstacles can be the distance between the street & the back of a moving truck, a flight of stairs, the difference of an underground train & surface level, or an extended relationship. An inclined plane requires less force than lifting an object straight up; If her spirits are so low, her effect on your uplift is toxic. An inclined plane relies on an angle of repose — the maximum angle at which a load can rest motionless on an inclined plane without sliding down — let’s say a one-year-plus mark of providing respite is historically unfounded, so miracles spring from science.

Potential problems with Simple Machine #3: A frictionless inclined plane is regarded as the Ideal Plane ((capital I)), & ((human)) nature rarely allows a lack of friction; meanwhile, the angle of repose can only exist with the presence of friction, so a decision must be reached by the hand exerting the initial energy — Would he rather progress quickly, no break for breath or reflection, ideally pushing up & finding himself over the vertical obstacle, or is repose, quiet & motionless, sought for a spell?

A lever is a beam pivoted at a fixed hinge or fulcrum, used to raise a load. Traditionally, equilateral triangles are believed optimal fulcrums, but scalene triangles may serve better, as the distances between any three given points rarely equivocate, & the need for lift often causes any load to grow heavier in very little time. Levers fall into three classes ((the naming unnecessary)), depending on the placement of resistance, the three yielding different degrees of mechanical advantage – the force amplification achieved. Levers exist as humble as a 2×4 leaned against a rock or as holy as a demeanor apathetic pressed to discomforts to hold up others more sensitive; If he absorbs the pain for her, he’ll never notice the pain of her.

Potential problems with Simple Machine #4: A lever amplifies input force to provide greater output force, an ideal lever never dissipating nor storing energy, never causing friction nor bending in the beam – Levers often prove weaker than initially judged by the hand exerting initial energy, beams absorbing energy in order to maintain angle of lift, & Hey. Wait. I’ve got a new complaint, so 100 pounds exerts the pressure of five times that, & beams composed of bone, muscle, organ, idea sometimes bend in hands up skirts & vacations fantasized with tour guides other than the beloved load.

A wheel & axle is ((most typically)) a pair of wheels ((circles intended to rotate)) attached to, or rotating around an axle ((a central shaft used to secure & rotate the attached wheels)), the applied force transferring between the two parts to create motion. The wheel & axle can be used for forward or upward progression, to move or to lift, the axle either attached to the wheels or fixed to its surroundings; Attachment at the wheels yields greater control, causes the wheels to rotate in unison, to hold together & travel in one direction. A codependence forms, the wheels unquestioningly spinning together. The other option lies in independent suspension, the split-axle, each wheel attached to a separate shaft, allowing for each wheel to move at a different speed, resulting in a smoother ride & extended life of the tires protecting the wheels.

Potential problems with Simple Machine #5: While science suggests superiority in the separate rotation & cooperation of the split-axle, human stubbornness insists on the fixed axle – as though two wheels can only complete a journey when welded as one, no variation in speed, no waking moment except for togethertogethertogether, even when obstacles & frictions & physics & dreams accumulate under tread; Just push ahead, ignoring strain, until a pothole or loose bolt in the train tracks or a more philosophical man jolts one wheel, ripping the axle, rendering the pair wasted & wasted, tire-skins shredded all in obsession.

 

((Currently Incomplete. Just sticking out some feelers.))

——————————————————————————-

The last match I struck was in the back-alley-auraed underground entrance to the bar M—- sometimes DJed at, probably a Monday where Tuesday felt swimmy, humid, shitty.

I watched her snort from a vial she kept in a change purse & fed her cigarettes to calm us both down – I never felt enchanted by drug abuse, only anxious, like whoever took part might seize up in front of me, & if only I’d stopped it.

But her love warmed, I assume still does, like all the world’s acceptance contained in the lipstick marks she burned into cheeks when rolling from joy, natural or ingested, & she never used proudly, so I looked away as though that qualified as un-knowing.

Friends I still talk to say she does more now, bartending here & there, while I squeeze into other vials, the bottled-up Good Feeling for a handful of grantless Hes who manage to register shades of green when they hear of each other, fighting instincts to kiss my forehead, pry heavy feet from ground when my smile’s in hiding, but can’t bother with words on days away since there are roommates & beers & pains to be had.

Label me: For recreational use only. Consume with equal parts alcohol & carelessness. Contact your dealer immediately if you experience any adoration or attachment.

Withdrawal used to be pointed – I longed for the dining room tables, the coffee tables, the café & patio sets where I sat with so many, but yr city’s a sucker, & I miss my creep most passing minutes.

The air of infestation, mattresses piled & soiled, an hour travel time, the battle for open space we’d just fill with smoke & toxic tongues; Fuck, I want to hear horns, having to run across streets to avoid squeaks & whiskers.

I’ve scheduled a field trip to the currency exchange to see if I can trade in a back yard for a single bedroom & roach hatchlings around the sink.

 

6 missed calls.
(866) Unknown,
(803) Local,
(302) DE – USA,
(407) Orlando, FL,
Unknown ((Simple)).

Last not listed, not matching – 3-digit difference,
negative difference, opposing mottos
smattering the cop cars on common ground.

Anyway, the numbers. Math is supposedly
a science, so I should grab hold, grasp
some principles. One here, eleven
numerals, convenient claims to tell
my future, & fuck one smooth move
of sixty jolts if I don’t make it to the
just-before-hitting-Dial before
remembering I favor services listing
“forget” in the realm of possibility.

Something in the quiet hangover – no headache, swimming eyes, absolute awareness of air against skin, momentarily forgetting the use of hands & fly-on-the-wall-ing simple actions – sits well with me.

Crack another, shiny skin, clear conscience,
accepting offers & saying “when your eyes turn
that green, that’s my favorite you” – A woman
is a human devil, no doubt, & one of the shes
committed wide open nights to rage against
the warning signs I adore, but it only stands
amended: A woman is a evil devil. There
walk friends I’ve yet to meet.

Begin those days by waking with sun rays, water & pills, & quick turnover to the luxury of unconscious.

But the science – a spray being the dispersal
of molecules, away in law, recollecting in
lines forming letters, forming truths, so long
as weather patterns & cause-needers stay
still. And lust exists only in pheromones,
facial expressions; Darlin’, I puffed up plumage
on Day One, & she can think she chemiclaimed
you, but booze is thicker than water, & I know
the reactivity of double bonds.

It’s all been here since the dawn of time,
sunshine. The combinations, sequences
are the only “new”s we can know.

Domesticity, dollar stores, floating through the picked-over, crossing arms to rush home & lie on the floor in only underwear, experiments with light & newfound skeletal angles for teasing; Talk you to long, to touch, to come, then ache naked for remembering what hands do.

I don’t smile at 5 A.M.. Try once more to touch
palms, though, blind five doors & turn right;
Release the dopamine, the oxytocin & dreams,
& I’ll laugh your name right back into your mouth.
It sounds like good sense, tonally, but check
phonetics of the syllable, & I may as well shout
for the devil to appear, fast as you’ll dissolve.

 

 

Perpendicular to the scars, demonstrate linear propriety across my thigh; I’ll even-exchange a lesson in opening eyes & closing legs.

The chairs in the back are still made of sugar-plastic that dissolves in the rain, rubs off white powder while kneeling to show love. And that suction cup’s been stuck to this window since Mom moved back into Dad’s room.

No one taught me to sew, no roller coasters, no dentistry, & the ocean was brought to my feet at age 12, but my wisdom teeth escaped & careful stitches hold my coat’s sleeve together.

Favors begged of light & shadow, bartering to skew perspective, or at least suggestion. In importance of the night-to-day, they forgot me.

My barstool is now off-white rug over off-brown carpet, & you’d note my sock shining through the lining of my skirt, cross-legged.

Skin here ripped & digital ink fell to illiterate, but you spend a lot of time trying to hold my hand.

 

 

The house of Mirth collapsed when the him-shaped brick pulled out.

We took up residence a few miles off, in Longing, wanting for the cause of not having, studying scrolls now bound & taking cues on rebellion.

The phone, promptly lifted, rests in that curve lips burn to brush, scripted speech, “Thank you for calling _____________. This is my given name, & the ringing in my ears remains unanswered. Is there something I can do for you?”

The house, though long-established, creaks in the night, unfinished, ribs of dark exposed, perfect for counting when our bodies turn for a change of position.

In armchairs, visitors whisper that he hung himself, but when barstools bring the story to light, he burst asunder; we find that hard to believe, but we need our pawns shined before sliding them across darker borders.

The fireplace heats only the living room of Longing, but we want for little, as books border ceiling, the rug before the mantle functions fairly as blanket, & when required to check boxes, we still cross over “Alive.”

If the four-digit codes ever fall, pop songs alluding to street-walking shake the stones, & ever-open lips latch to narcissism, never lack of self-esteem. History confirms this prophecy.

These days, thirty silver pieces suffice to buy a fifth of the cheap stuff; enough to slake our thirst & condense conversation to pulp.

On Mondays, Thursdays, & Sundays during the Summer season, the house of Longing recalls Winter & acquires such a draft body-blankets won’t settle to cover, so we solitary shiver.

Punishment bears multiple definitions: signing for agreed-upons never explained, sacrificing even the martyr title to exemplify “Evil,” a winking concept of a good time.

We debate record-keeping, settling on logging Longing metaphors: Stitched sleeves, sand flung in eyes, any number of scribble-scuses filling blue lines.

Red symbolizes death, sex, &, etymologically, cardinal sin, according to one scholar or another. Linguistics with no application of history also lend to confusion regarding La Cienega. You grant time to damning theory.

Communications begin to fail, intros forgotten, calls now answered with, “What’s your pleasure?” lead to shouts, lead to dotted lines where arms & lashes draped.

Time passes quickly within log(ged) walls, doubt expedited – There are many rooms, & nights I’ve spent alone lend to nights you’ve not.

The lens of storytelling shifts, & it’s really up to whoever’s talking whether the man acted as disillusioned disciple or simply shouted “These colors don’t run!”

I brace borders, extricating incestuous texts; Longing wraps rug around pages & limbs, safe in knowledge that fires mirror milk spilled to coffee, & this is my own.

The annex behind the bedroom leads to locked doors, when picked, open to a fort constructed from the rubble of Mirth. Ringing. Loose change & spare keys. Ringing. Sheet spread across dirt, off-white stains. Answer with “Goodbye.”

 

I’m working on what might be my favorite poem I’ve ever written, but  the foundation’s shaky, so it’s taking a very long time.

Ecks & Oh.

((Revisited.))

No roses root in our bed. Complex show
fragrance superiority, sapping soil, not
enough nutrients to go round, but black-
eyes golden rods baby’s breaths cluster
close, cling to each other & sun, beg no
excess attentions – the innocent, the
heartless, the orphans, & single-sprig
snapdragon; Oh, close eyes to metaphor,
but understand I invest my hours pruning to
insure direct sunlight to spaces between
blooms, the slim neck & curve of bell—Just
Chick Habit. The snow doesn’t stick &
ground warms under hand, exhalation =
life, so channel lessons from long-dead,
scientific names & the time I soft-C’ed the
“Schuy” ((Hope Heaven holds ignorance &
Sorrys sacred)), these more worthy of eyes
& ears & words: I remember “I want to see
it without the negotiations,” meaning
“minus hypotheses”;  His hair fell further
then, a peer found definition of
“inappropriate” in penning compromised
positions, a proper place for all of the sweat
& conjunction, & I, I listened.

Today brought “Nobody reads anymore,”
the fraying of a glove, miscounting change,
the formation of a body-shaped dotted
line—gadgets & gizmos aplenty, yes, one
hell of a collection, all hidden in shadows on
the Cave wall—Basic rules apply, child-me
decided Promise a swear, not a swearing, so
breaking a statement past P-word forever
results in a breaking of bodies ((A clever
phrasing of “If, Then,” of course)). C.V.
revision to include Sounding Board,
Inputless – January 1988 to Present;

Dear, please pass a copy on to anyone
willing to pay in family stories & haircuts,
unknowledges, though brighter lights at
righter angles might philosophize the
chained, release the who’s-its or what’s-its.

The boy on the train leaned in, mouth
inches from little sister’s ear, secreting the
world for her approval, punctuation in
pencil eraser tapped to nose & pink
camouflage strap as redefined “man,”
smiles & patiences prompting wishes for
absolutes like “all,” but why such search
history when filling full only means trusting
those who might tote contrasting colors or
weed out succulents & cliché?

I dizzy, two beers in again, following flakes,
& I lied! One caught on my cheek,
unmelting, triggering musicals & missing
not-so-long-but-nonetheless losts – Recall
the unfailing flailing shit show, sweepings
off of feet & somehow harmonizing balls of
butter & miscounted minutes per year, yes,
so many “loves” the scoreboard’s eternally
tilted, but rules fall deaf to ears trying to
listen, so we continue to obey barricades
blocking kitchens when all we want is
jumbled feasts & descriptions of divided
studios—Slow Alchemy—disambiguation
down to turned vinyl corners, scene
imagined for lack of invite, chipping away of
bird form ‘til unrecognized, for isn’t it all so
much prettier when backlit? He asked for
numbers & gaps manifested, quantity over
quality, since maybe two succeeded in
getting me off—No blushing! No qualming!
Trust learning developed in actual scarring,
indifference to jism & syllogism, so

thereafter plays back best in 4/5 time or
with 146th Street bassline & speaking since
tune & pitch fail & heroes preach sound
pollution. I learn of diseases that attack via
head & heart, so where to turn in illness?
“Growth” mutates to a shift, Black Masses,
squeezes out tentacles horror-movie-
dragging off family ‘til I’m sure 25 deserves
a Miracle Party. I doubt little these days in
dialogue, dance imagined full-detail: Wake
early to frost from-scratch cake, pipe icing
into dogwood blossom, navigate three
trains to triumphant placing of cake on
table, & she’ll enter, smile open-mouthed,
removing a $100 glove to spread
fingers wide, drop them to cake’s center
& twist wrist, guffaw, glance around to faces—
child seeking love for doing wrong—while
his joints, brain, lungs glow in two dozen x-
ray prints. Tell me again of textbook
definition & expect me not to laugh; No, G’s
hold no loyalty, consistency, so play the pop
louder & let me have the red chair &
hour-long shower each Saturday.

Avoid adjectives leading, as I now take faith
in the intelligence of the populace to knee-
jerk in the right direction when I paint
picture of malcontent in entitlement.
Friends lower brows when I raise two
octaves, describe the new nook I’ve found
& chocolate chip latte, these being two of
three on the short list of Nouns I Earnestly
Love, alongside Thingamabobs.
Or was it conversation with strangers?

Whichever allows for truer discomfort;
I’d sketch a diagram to demonstrate, but
they say drawing isn’t my medium, & I’d
rather not confuse You further, so when
You tell me It is infinite & therefore the
smallest thing, I shy away—Say the act
of sidling from Heaven ≠ damnation, Spirit
Poet, as time climbs low before hitting ceiling,
& moments between forever friends now drag
for want of words approaching “interesting.”
Fill in few gaps lacuna-ing our together, explain
the significance of dancing toasters & the scar
on my forehead, playing video games & exploring
the cabinet under the blue lamp big enough for
a Night Child, screaming, to hide in & the day I
figured out the pieces inside made a record player
long since incapable of sound, but the tape deck
nearby blasting about a love that lifts a man, “boogie”
translating in child mind to spinning ‘til too dizzy,
cracking still-soft skull on coffee table corner &
stopping blood spurts ((tiny, girl-shaped Vesuvius))
with damp washcloth & sitting on the porch ‘til Mema
flipped the same “You’ll be well before you’re married
twice”’s of my mother, but somehow infusing them
with magic or medicine, silencing tears, eliciting
“Okay” & return to play.

Fast-forward to the cake-covered hand & just how
agile its fingers prove, always pointing, underlining
vaguenesses itself created, fairy tale pitfalls just
camoed with woven underbrush—contracts, barrels
for bending over; eggshells, the smell, food noises
inches from ears; only saints occupy the Southside,
so our impatience reads as sin.

New York, I don’t want your glaring juxtapositions—
licorice beside the zinnias, pink gold-hearted mums,
carnations; No first dates, just button-down warmth
& bad films & any “his” knowing without asking that
we have to stay on the left side of the street because
the right is too ratty. Quantify so the alligator mouth
((A friend told me Up Here it’s called “greedy duck”;
What do you say beyond Golden Gates?)) points in
any direction other than my asking, since claiming
Simple stands as another talent in my mostly-hollow
bones, other mass including marigolds & lilies pressed
to skeleton, the smell of too many cigarettes in
enclosed space, & the day Mema taught measurings &
methods of the elusive cookie, most important to let
Poppop have first pick—only the pretty ones, only while
still warm; A dance, partner-less ‘til someone knows the
same steps ((& me, with no training!)) to mimic a happiness
learned so early & by so many others, but failed
whenever attempted.

I still refuse, no endearing fears or qualms about it,
to return any of their kilojoules—insert “Finders, Keepers”
or “War Pigs” or “Indian Giving” or any childhood rules
instructing property laws here—when really, I’ve already
converted the energy, whether to other pages or bottle
cap collections, so my hands are tied, rouge-less, empty.
I even end up speechless, frequently, for forgetting
terminology of a reality that doesn’t fit entirely, pinching
at fasteners, pressing at seams, & the clichés might be clichéd

for a reason, existing as the only truths I can find in the
faces of best-liars, talking over, over-talking in any
conversation of worth—express care via anti-, &
demand 25th Street meetings with greetings of Sorry,
do I know you? because elbow-rubbing with Importants
implants a seed—kudzu or wisteria or any climbing ivy—
priorities must fall as follows:

Him ((wantsneedsmotives)), the man, the gallery, the
family, the partner, the Knows & Want-to-Knows,
the job, the little people, the etc., & the fall-behind;
A game of Telephone, only in lieu of message, we
latch mouths & by chain’s end I’m left walking along,
lungs filled full up with carbon-oxygen-oxygen,
lightheaded but expected to work muscles to grin.

I’m sorry for the physical shutting down when
mornings begin with lifting trash cans & sifting
for keys in Harlem well-to-do’s muck—the piss
& shit of privilege’s underbelly under my
fingernails, matching eye makeup.

I’m auditioning coffee shops for the role of filling
the gaps, & I’ve met The One but suffer for want
of not-another-routine, so I stand him up for the
asshole hard benches & children with British accents,
tennis rackets, & requests for bacon—one swings
like Federer, skewing a display of pretzels so his mother
cancels his order, & I laugh; My coffee burns my mouth
& apartment memory offers no solace since I shadow
the window shelves of Mema’s kitchen, collecting
empty cans ‘til Fridays

No coat into snow so You can be proud of me.
You recycle in the clouds, right? The rain to evaporate
to condense to rain process proves it, though I tire
of water & wind—I tire of conversation comparing
grocers & dog parks & salad dressings; I hold regard
for disregard in that I respect the apathy behind it,
can’t fathom mishandling another so easily, still
shame for friends’ hurt eyes over poems years past.
His joints glow green, for clarity’s sake, that Kryptonite
color, his insides being what kill him, Dry Bone Valley;
I guess that I just thought maybe we could find new ways to fall apart—

breaking bottles over each others’ broken hearts
wears thin. I mean, these hearts hold no resistance
so the glass sinks into their bits like sand, very meta,
& onto, what? The seventh age of it now? Play connect-
the-dots with freckles & bruises, jabbing each along the
way to add permanent damage to insult to injury, & really,
I don’t trust the stories, because why would an ex-
nothing ask of my whereabouts? I’ve composed cat
explanations, picnicked & written letters, scavenged
a week’s worth of “This reminded me of you”’s, so I
prefer cooking romantic dinners for two

putting half in the fridge, & gifting it to me the next
night. Used to Give a Fuck, Now I Give a Fuck Less.
The One next to You wrote of the lemon like I could
know it, effort appreciated, then squeezed too hard;
eyes shut now from shrapnel & seed, perpetual audience
misunderstanding, but if sought, Rosetta Stone lives
in Your legends.

Trivial quote from anyone else’s bed: One quieted
“You look pretty… something in the way the light’s hitting
your face,” sub-sect behaving to any extreme to avoid
sincerity. The word “Nirvana” comes from Sanskrit &
literally means “to cease blowing,” & I’d agree, waiting
45 minutes in winter rain to not see art I’d planned for a
month, warming of phalanges left to cold beer & shitty
acoustic covers, but the waitress has kind eyes, an accent,
smiles at mention of poems, & now he’s playing Al
Green, so I like him—

How many times have I said that? Donuts & pastries
fall alongside cake, so the hand sticks to surfaces, faces
daily; please note: The sweetest message I’ve yet to
receive fell between Fresh Rips & Nervous Man In a
Four Dollar Room
, & I have the good sense ((bad fortune?))
to reject it. But his eyes exist in width, & his smiles stick
to the holes in my tights, so I pivot in mirrors these days
to laugh—the supposed-to forgotten for conversation
summed up in <s & 3s;

 

((More to come.))

Receding gums have pushed to reveal the soft spot
((I suppose appropriately)) on the very day I first told someone
to go fuck herself, “default” became an active verb, the
social media headline just familiar & dream-shade footprints
dragged to board ships. ((He could only ever handle Away as a
permanent plan.)) But he pops up again, the instinct to tongue
the sting atop eye tooth, & audible discomfort accompanies
a smile. He’s welcome for Fountain of Youth-ing his face off
that August, granting audience to ((heart))string theory ‘til
the riddle worked itself out: The transition from friend to lover
wrenches the love right out of it.

                All of this is true.

What’s an original way to describe relocation, to explain exodus?
I feel like that guy in that movie, only not as good-looking &
with less hope of any clean resolution; Contrails or bladetrails.
I love that my favorite girl broke up with my favorite guy, & I
have Crowbar in my self-dictation. Tell me if you find any leads
on a decent junk guitar — If I’m gonna fail, I wanna fall
spectacularly, bad trips to swear off drugs, good boys to swear
off love. But. Wait. Those happened. I’ve yet to snap a string,
though, so there’s something to live for.

                Especially the lies.

When he said Mountains Would Miss Me, that the chairs lining
makeshift library were me-shaped, he over-specified; She’ll do
more to bring out the reds in the border his mulberry stained
fingers pressed into place with the first She he’d settle for
in want of honey highlights. But I’m not bitter — even the arms of
these lows drip with sticky sucrose: Hell, reduce the vinegar to
sweetness, it’s my way of teaching you out of your head.

                Even leaps of faith.

The pause of malfunction = textual stutter; The even-tempered
win love, which kind of defeats the purpose of war, or causes it.
A poet told me “You can’t watch your own image & also look
yourself in the eye,” or he sang it & I heard it, which is the same
thing. Let’s argue between stanzas, say the formula’s simple,
self-important paragraphs, & scoff. They all have Crohn’s &
inspiration anyway. Look on the bright side: You’ll prob’ly get
sick someday.

                (                                                                      )

Scratches & markings-through erase value, so can’t we claim
worthlessness without words if we brandish our scars for public
appeal? Conversations that don’t make linear sense are NOT
normal. But if the mouths spitting were ugly at any point, we’ll
buy it. No merit badges for small bladders, but there really
should be one for alcohol retention, if the claim is utility.

                Belief’s still its own economy.

I’m already over him ((again)). And I laughed in a sassy face because
bandanas are never necessary & serve only to inspire adjectives
offensive to me & mine — This isn’t fucking Williamsburg, & we
are not fucking; There is no desire in my cell system to submit
to colonization, despite the ends suggested when I turn
phrase to douche- or dick-ery. I feel like that chick in that movie,
only not as good-looking & with less hope of any bone-deep
fearlessness.

                History depends on the weather the day record is penned.

 

The note I left myself to remind myself began

I was trying to ask if I was a fucking idiot. You said no. I asked the wrong question. You’re angry, but you’re still in love. And I wanted to tell you the scary things, my dad hitting my dog, & 3-year-old me, & in the rain 20 minutes for the keeping of safety…

Both the note & our conversation ended in ghosts given up, but morning brought more of your poking fingers & prodding winks to suggest I hold a little tighter to hauntings. Grey is my least favorite color, though shading an activity I frequent; You don’t have to wonder my eye color & can calibrate moods based on where it falls on the wheel each day — Green’s been present for weeks, & the relation to your input twists like laundry.

I bend in half, molding speech back because I know you want my domesticity, accuracy, letting the human factor fail to be a factor for the capital-R Right constantly sought — Attention-to-detail makes for the best blow jobs, darling. Require then reject photographic evidence. Pass an aggressive whine for attention to open bar reception, spin cycle to silence, but alteration just doesn’t squeeze into the schedule. I’m founder & president of a club to which I don’t attend meetings: Hi, my name is Alcoholic, & I’m an introvert. Enjoy each others’ bodies while I see to shame & bruising of knees that will shine just below hems you’ll sign off on, since they’re just enough to entertain for 4-hour guest spots. Tuck away your superpowers: assisting starvation & suggestion; let me rub out the blurs by insisting the glasses are the kicker & the killer.