i say jump, you say ‘how high?’
allowing yourself to be
directed
mercilessly
by the current of the infinite
wouldn’t you rather paddle a few rivers ahead
then drown and drown at the mouth of the falls?
flailing isn’t lovely
but everything isn’t for the aesthetic
everything isn’t encompassing
because no man has seen it all
and those who have wandered
dangerously
carelessly
freely and wildly
beyond the pale
only realize the less and less we know
we, who are we to be a collective of knowledge
rather
a conglomerate of questions
rather
a community of inquiries
spin and turn and dive and float
float along, active in mind mild in body alive in spirit
i long for sinners and saints to write their own credos
post them side by side and notice
(try not to be too shocked)
how similar we seem to be
this isn’t a place for warm-fuzzies
this isn’t a place for hand-holding
it’s a call for mirroring
for looking into the eyes of the enemy and realizing
becoming aware
that his corneas are in the same place as yours
his itch is just as hard to scratch
allowing yourself to be
bullied
mercilessly
by the tides of the infinite
wouldn’t you rather grab this log
and drift along side me
then drown at the mouth of the falls?
we’ve heard this one before.
one hundred and one things i’d say if you lived in my bathroom
i keep having this dream that your dead body is found
in the dark
on the seat of my toliet
and i open the door, around midnight,
no one is ever there but i definitely definitely see you
if i sent you a text saying,
look, i want you and lust after you for no reason at all other than i think the world should be explained to you in technicolor and bright oil paints because all the words and sounds i possess will never be the right melody for the harmony of your skin
don’t be offended
say nothing
reply nothing
few things are ever adequate for these moments
only smile at me tomorrow and say
hi, little one, you should really check your
alcohol intake
god i must be a terribly broken record
or a sad woman worried she smells bad because the man of her hour won’t give her the time of day
jesus
i tried to correct all the consequences of those moments but there isn’t enough concealer and you keep making the same mistake
imagine
i never thought i’d write about you
test the limits of salvation of my salivation over bodies and bodies of what the future holds tight in its small and infinite fists
jesus
jesus
jesus jesus jesus christ
i keep having this dream where everyone is dressed in red and resembles birds of prey
pray for tomorrow
it hasn’t enough sun to illuminate its fears
and fear aplenty is the downfall of many a good artist
a good spirit
a good drink mid-afternoon
i can’t wait for the break of day
anything is better than this
anything is better than you
anything is better than the bitter want for skin solace sunlight
jesus
bring us the sunlight
yeah, you would.
the things i’ve seen
are not many
they are nothing compared to what pieces of the earth have been
so anoint me
with the caustic oil
burn me with what’s purged from the light
the bits that burn
the scraps that smoulder
burn me
this is for all the nights i’ve waited to say,
love me
this is for all the night i should’ve gone to bed
the numbers don’t add up, angel.
the price isn’t right
don’t tell me things that aren’t true
tell me things that exist
tell me the last night you said,
no more
and the morning after when you
did again
i have only my words
and my eyes and my lips
it isn’t my vagina that needs servicing
it’s my spirit
so call your priest
write to your preacher
bring me a redeemer
of sawdust and soluble matter
i want to die a free soul
it isn’t the darkness i fear
it’s the light of your ligaments
the brittle of your bones
the broken pattern of thought we all adhere to but advise against
i am meek
i am small
i am broken and ransacked and strong
stronger than the inability to swim against the current
stronger than the want for wanting
stronger
the things i’ve seen are not many
the earth bears witness to the birth of awful
or evil
of words worse than i have envisioned
of actions bellowing destruction
i have no capacity for destruction
what you do to yourself is your own goddamn choice don’t tie me
in the binds of your woes
anoint me.
i am tired and weary and alive,
birds on a wire
turtles after birth
mothers after conception
artists on a quest
these are the things i’m after
following, in succession, the noble procession of
previous life
who am i to be woeful
who am i to be sad
anoint me
drown me in the fragrant oils of things i’ll know at forty five
of children i’ll look square in the eye and say
go for it
it’s worth all the while
go for it
and fear not what man can do to you, dear child
the things man has seen are not many
the things man can do are not few
but this is no reason to not captivate an audience
this is no reason to not scream
this one’s dirty.
all my thoughts remember you, in times when i asked for forgiveness, forgetness, the ability to only ever move past and not through.
stop passing through me.
it’s unkind. uncharitable. no matter how hard a boy pushes, the surface that greets him will always be the hollows of me. there is no other side. there is no exit. there is no railing to hold on to. there’s just a gaping hole in the bottom upper center of me. fill me. fill me with your melancholy. fill me with your joy. fill me with your childhood and your fears of spiders roaches long holidays and sunburns.
i swear i was designed as a vessel. a jar of clay half molded all glazed, such a shine he schlacked on this one, such a shine i’ve got.
all my thoughts remember you, in times when i asked for silence, solemnity, the ability to leave, disability to come back.
stop coming back.
calling your name might result in that, i understand, but i only say it to feel satiated. the way your name fills my throat is the way toes fill the sand, cool and exciting and momentary, that metaphor makes sense if you listen and not learn. don’t learn. press your body around mine, the small of my back transforms into a bridge between genuine terror and terrific arousal. i will take you in my mouth, tasting the leftover ritual chants you couldn’t fit on praying palms. pray to another god. pray to another womb. pray with a broken spine and dried out eyes there aren’t words enough for the metamorphosis of your mouth into a hollow for transcendental ideas we’ve all heard before.
stop. my. mouth. stop. this. talking.
all my thoughts remember you, in times when i asked for peace, possibility, the desire for punishment and love of pittance.
stop my mouth.
you were a child, crawling on your knees towards it.
we like to watch you laughing.
and you have this great way you crinkle your nose when you’re thinking too hard.
i see the entire galaxy you’ve got spinning
right behind your head
it’s so close to chaos
so close to spinning right out of control
and i think you’ve been there before
was it terrifying?
did you see the eyesores of god?
did he laugh when you asked to come down?
would you ever go again?
it’s okay if you’re afraid. i was too. and i haven’t been to the black lava rock sand that sifts at the very bottom of the ocean. if you went any further,
do you think the core of the earth would swallow you whole?
we only want to be swallowed,
and kept warm in the stomachs of our lovers.
you’re the kind of person people want to wrap up in their childhood memories.
sometimes i think you look at the sky and see
all the puffs of smoke
nicotine addicts exhaled with their dreams
i think you lay your head on your hands
and don’t want sleep
but explanations for the lifetimes you know exist in the whites of your nail beds
you are such an exceptional human being
someone ought to tell you every day, just once, via
carrier pigeon.
so even if you forget to leave your window open,
the bird shit will be resting on the sill as a reminder.
you make me never want to be catty again. you make me want to read hundreds of books, just so i could reiterate how they made me think of you. you make me want to paint portraits of angel fish and porch railings. you make me want to laugh and cry and sing eighteenth century operettas no one can remember the libretto to.
i don’t love you.
i fear for you. and wonder if stitching enough parachutes together would cushion your fall.
was it terrifying?
did you see the eyesores of god?
did he laugh when you asked to come down?
would you ever go again?
is that seat taken?
pretend i’m writing this to you.
and i’ve always want to talk about chaos theory. the only thing i know about it is that it ends badly for everybody. but it won’t happen for a while.
at least, that’s what i’ve been led to believe.
pretend i’m writing this part in the hope you feel the same way.
i was looking at the stars last night, wondering if they’re blazing brighter and hotter than ever in an attempt to combust. they looked so peaceful in the deepest navy sky. like patient pins holding up a funeral shroud for the earth. i can’t wait for the day when it drops down, and we can quietly cross the cold arms of our mother nature. may she rest.
at least, that’s what i believe she needs.
pretend i’m writing this part to another person, but that’s an excuse.
i notice how enclosed you are. you collapsed a long time ago, and only hold yourself upright because evolution told you so. i have a cherry pit in my stomach, and i want you to reach in and grab it. plant it at the base of your spine. a tree will grow strong and steady, and instead of a backbone, you’ll have branches and trunk and flowers after about five years. maybe, one day, you’ll even bear fruit.
at least, i think you’re capable of it.
pretend i’m writing this to you.
i started editing my thoughts. did a mental word processor grow in place of my medulla oblongata? that would explain the clicking sound my blood makes. because of this, i see war zones everywhere i go, and i hear peace pacts being made in secret. because of this, i don’t know what to give up for lent. because of this, i don’t know what to say or how, only that i’m dying to.
at least, i’d imagine this is near a desire for death.
pretend i’m writing this part just for myself.
i’ve always wanted to understand quantum physics. and if the world will really end this december. but an intersection in ohio has no answers and my body is raging against the air around me and there simply aren’t enough books written on the subject of how to put one foot in front of the other. everyone just assumes you picked that up on your own. god, it’s like getting out of bed in the morning. just because you’ve always done it that way doesn’t make it right.
at least, that’s what i’ve been led to believe.
smash.
i wish i could talk about my feelings the way dancers articulate their toes
perfectly arched to express every ounce of connection the body flings in your direction
like particles of light
like rays of dark
like moonbeams for days
like sunshine at night
i wish you could come in and consume me
preserve parts of me in your mouth
your skin
your bones
your organs
the air immediately in front of your nostrils
preserve me
because i will never write the poem that will make you love me
instead i’ll give you the meal of my body
the serving of my mind
the drink of my spirit
the bathwater of my holy ghosts
there’s nothing ugly about loving another person
there’s nothing ugly about crying over a hope that pricked its finger on a spinning wheel
and fell fast asleep
i wish i could hold you inside of me the way the crescent moon holds the shadowed rest of itself
cosmically created to curve itself into itself into a luminous whole in the sky
like a rip in patchwork
like a stitch over broken skin
like a surgery for the gods
like a phonecall when you need a hug
i know that you’ll never consume me
you’ll never take me in your mouth and allow for the bitter salt of what i feel
to cleanse your palette
i know you’ll take your meals alone in your bedroom
and i’ll be pressing myself hard against the door
so you’ll at least feel the pressure of me thick in the smell of your food
this isn’t the poem that will make you love me
it’s just the poem that wants to be painted on your walls
on the seam of your ribs
on the tip of your lashes
it’s just the poem that will be sacrificed to a wishing well
thrown down like a penny in the bathwater of your holy ghosts
sinking to the bottom of the bottle of your triune god
patiently waiting for the day when you need a wish too
i wish i could live in the bottom of your shoe
and hold you up when you walked home alone
this is a poem for you
