Once more, with feeling

It doesn’t feel like poetry anymore.
It feels too watched, too studied, to analyzed with a modicum of your memory,
too silent and not literal,
too based on who I am alone and driving,
too blissful and/or disturbed based on what song plays on the radio,
too focused too focused too focused
on everything and nothing at the same exact second,
too injured to be so strong, too strong to say I’m still wounded,
too aware that vampires are real and they used to be my lovers and friends,
too gray in this in-between to know what light or dark is,
too tired of calling it “light” or “dark” when it’s all an imperfect scale,
too hopeful to not mention it,
too aware of my own faults and how lovingly I caress them after the tears,
too enlightened to what is happening right now to resist it,
too sure that I am unsure and I am in love with it.

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Hollow

It is that special kind of hollow

without you here,

and I think of what would be described as

fantasy lives of freedom

and feel only chest pangs.

This is less poetic and more medical.

My bones have been drained of calcium-magnesium-marrow

I feel more fragile when I imagine without you,

not to say I am unsurvivable,

because these bird bones broke before leaving the nest,

I just like feeling whole

and feeling wholly

put together

so climb back into my chest cavity

in two weeks please,

let me breathe

like it was nothing that you were gone,

(which is a lie)

(it is always something of note)

but now your here-ness makes it assuagable to the heart.

Stay still in this body,

let the storms be just respiration,

let it be less hollow.

It Is A Memory

I saved up so many

sonnets inside

because you don’t like words,

wastes of time

paper in waste baskets

crumpled pages on the floor

boxes in rooms with covered windows

(rainbow film when you tilt your head).

The only words I heard

were about the stories you didn’t write down,

visions when you tilted your head

(rainbow, paper,)

so the world was off center

 

and I am tilted.

I am sleeping on the couch

because the bed got so empty tonight

empty like a clean bowl

nice set of China, we took it out

to use whenever we wanted because

fuck special occasions, it’s an occasion to be alive 

and in love 

and to miss your laugh. 

I painted blue lines on my body

and you told me how your veins once collapsed

from dehydration, 

I once drank so little water I turned into a stone ridge

and got Scarlet fever. 

Same mindset. 

Same rings around Saturn and this dishware. 

Same hole I’m boring into the floor I pace

because I can’t sleep on a red eye. 

The sheets are made of glass. 

Curation and preservation of where you last saw me. 

Arrange your art so it’s beautiful to the eye. 

I have two couches in this living room,

one for me and one for you. 

9/8/16

if my limbs are curled 

it is the training 

my body received

on how to play dead

and if this flailing is a message

it’s just that I carry so many words inside

like a novel, ideas 

that are screaming at decibels only dogs 

hear

or fish that glow in the dark 

see

or boys with no eyelids 

dream

this mouth is light a lightbulb

or a screwdriver

depending on the second

hand you are laying down

in the drawer

problem drinker. 

and there it sits, 

that half empty bottle,

and it wasn’t meant for a special

occasion, like a baptism or funeral or in between,

but it was meant to be. 

And She rolls around in your mind, 

though you can’t say her name,

for familial reasons

(thanks D [and if you say you know this, you reveal a lot]), 

so you just sip quietly

and think of how not bad it is,

and that makes a lot of difference,

to compare and contrast

like fifth grade math. 

It is better,

and that’s what you asked for,

when you went back to praying

for any kind of sign. 

Maybe the sign was the kind of dog your ex wanted,

the one you wanted everything with,

and the one you love agreed

but had addendums

that were actual improvements

so you stay

every day

and the routine is more like a massage 

and the rules are lore and legend at this point

so you keep believing

in it 

every day

one day 

at a time. 

I am (year of the snake)

like a serpent, not in

the metaphorical

but very physical

as a creature making due without legs

on land.

You are

like snakes

at a throat,

or in a basket,

I can’t decide which,

for a year of self-portraits

done with invisible ink.

I am an anaconda killer,

not literal, but literature-wise,

a concept I hope you

grasp in the night after terrifying movies,

a chill you feel when you exhale through pitch screens,

a dull numbness you claw at in the darks of truth.

Poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

some art is not.

7/17/16

I don’t know how to make you

not make me

hypomanic. 

Glass cargo trucks carry

big boulders across 

dessert storms

and I am supposed to perform

as if

we aren’t all paper mache puppets

and you did not

laugh the same as I did

and I did not 

wipe

snot off your face when you were drunk in the bathroom

and I am supposed to not

understand your hurt

because common social graces dictate

that I hold steady

but I am a wave

and I am always forward

until I am back

and I run on for so long

with an undertow. 

If you press sand long enough

on the shore or elsewhere

it turns translucent

and these shards were removed from my feet long ago

but I keep them in a jar

to run through my palms when you call,

just a reminder why

I stay so far

from what you sea. 

proper medication. 

everything is made of stained glass

I want a spider plant in the window

I remember how rare these moments can be

presently

let go

you’ll see

if this sounds sad it’s not

that must be projection

this is just those things that made me happy

when laid bare

with less fraught

the volume turns down 

and the water had rosehips last night,

and turmeric this time,

and I’ll remember to take pills on time,

I’ll medicate and say thank you and please,

and it feels the good kind of calm

and it feels the good kind of talk

and it feels like it rained but was warm out

and it felt like I didn’t even think bad

things would happen,

so they didn’t

and today already feels okay. 

2015

1. I set your room on fire 

and rolled around in the mourning ash,

laughing

like a mad girl

writing a love song,

singing a freedom chorus. 

No recollection would be complete

without a nail in my hand

that has your name on it

pinning me to the prayer of 

thank god and goddess and spirit and the like

that you gave me a fire once

to set you ablaze. 

2. Deep breaths are calming

free from your smoke. 

3. Mountain air,

CO2 and lack of conspiracy,

a long hike with no underbrush 

because that is the first to burn. 

I thought you were a tree but you’re just rot,

you wanted to be irreplaceable and I knew you were not. 

Immolate.