Tuesday, June 25, 2013

defiled



you don't want to 
know what happens when i 
close my eyes.

Monday, June 24, 2013

you placed all your love in a bottle [quite resembled a 
ship, actually. all wooden bows and tiny parts and
sinkable things.]

sometimes we like to believe that the pieces we set to sea 
will come back someday-
and this time, this time they will work, 
they will be weathered and sturdy 
and amazingly fixed.

deep down, you know that water leaves
[everything a little bit weaker.]

i wouldn't swim in the ocean
i wouldn't paddle through
all those souls.

Saturday, June 22, 2013

you know,
in the middle ages, headaches were thought to be the presence of 
the devil in your brain and a common cure was 
a beheading.
ouch.

i don't think i've ever been that sick with anything (save for
now), 
i wonder what the devil is doing in my lower back(playing xylophone on my 
spinal column and prying my teeth up from my jaw with tiny
pick axes) 
and i wonder if he's responsible
for all the dreams about you
and her
and me
on the floor.


i woke up at 9 a.m. and looked for
an executioner's craigslist ad,
found nothing.
i took eleven advil and 
went back to bed.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

sometimes i think i am made of more 
sorry's
than not. 
i mean every single one;
sometimes i think i am made of revelations
that hit in the middle of an IKEA
about the bad things i have done to 
good people.
i miss things like barnacles,
maybe i'm pathetic.




i've been sober for three years,
so thats a thing.

[tacked on the tally marks to my
unmarred ribs]
theres something poetic about shaking hands,
i really am sorry.
no one invites me to weddings anymore because they think i'm
crazy.
i blame the internet and shows about murder and my blog and Oprah,
my parents because they gave me everything i wanted and nothing i needed.

the cat here is mean to me, i don't know why
he bites my hands
and probably talks shit behind my 
back. 
maybe i am crazy,
i shouldn't be at weddings.

today, a man on the street told me that
the apocolypse already happened, the world was already
over
and no one noticed because everything
was exactly the same.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

"You were, you were running around Riverside Park without any shoes and I kept thinking, 'Jesus Christ, she's gonna step on a needle or something', but you didn't, you were fine... how did you do that? How were you always okay? There you were, high out of your mind just, skipping around the grass and you were happy, you were always so happy. How did you do that?"

"Because I never cared, I never cared about anything. I didn't give a fuck about you then, did you know that? I had to learn to love you, that night I was flirting with everyone at that party and I didn't feel guilty about it because I wasn't a we, I was still a me. You did it though, you made me love you and then you left me. Sure, you were still there but... you left me and I had to make myself okay again after that. I had to accept your instability, I had to accept that you were fallible."

"You can't, you can't blame this on me. You were too much, you were clawing at me and I was just trying to li-"

"See, every time I start to rethink everything- I remember. I remember the day you told me I wasn't first on your list and I forgive myself a little more each time. Because you were first on mine. You weren't ready, I was just... I guess I was looking for wedding bells. This was never your fault and it wasn't mine. I needed electricity or magnets, something strong that wouldn't ever let go."

"You wanted magnets, you had them. You had fucking industrial magnets."

"If I did, we wouldn't be having this conversation Jake, I had to let go."

"Don't you dare fucking speak to me about letting go, you're the one who left. You're the one who went off and died and made it my fault."

"You're still checking the grass for needles, aren't you?"

"And you're still haunting me."

"I would stop if I knew how. Things might have been different if you had stayed."

"I could say the same to you."

Monday, June 17, 2013

The carpet smelled like smoke which was understandable, he's found that almost all things smell like smoke when you're pressed so close to them. Maybe everything in the word is made up of the particles, maybe he's smoke as well. So, he lays on his own rug and tries to remember how much it cost. See, he can visualize the 'sale' sign, he can imagine every aspect of the highlighter yellow background or the stupid smiling face graphic. The price, the price is the only thing he no longer can see, well, that and June's face. Perhaps she was excited for it, perhaps she was pensive, maybe it took her fifteen minutes to decide or fifteen seconds or maybe she wasn't even there at all. Maybe she was never there. Maybe he had bought it during her depression, after the miscarriage. Maybe he had bought it to make her smile but, thinking back, a red rug wouldn't have been the kindest gift. She had probably seen blood in it, she had probably seen the streak running down her leg or the sheets at 3 a.m. He supposes that it doesn't matter much anymore and lays face-down on the carpet for hours straight, just trying to remember the price tag or the store or her face- anything would suffice. He hears the door and doesn't get up but rather turns his face to the side with still shut eyes.


"I think it was thirty dollars"
"It was twenty and you bought it after I killed our baby."
"God, June, you didn't... you couldn't have..."
"But that's what you always thought, wasn't it? If only I'd been more careful, if only I'd taken the prenatal vitamins. The drug companies poison them, Jake! They inject them with diseases and then vaccinate children years later. It's a scam, it's all a scam and who profits? Pharmaceuticals, they would have made our precious baby boy into a guinea pig, autism! Downs syndrome! It's a scam, it's all a plot to make their way into our homes and turn our children against us, I couldn't let it happen, I couldn't let-" He turns, screams louder than he thought he would.
"Enough!" His anger settles as silt at the bottom of the conversation, the red heat cools to gray[everything is gray]. "I never thought... I never thought it was your fault."
"Oh Jake," condescending and slick with pity, "you can't hide from the dead. I know everything, I know that little whore from the lab. You taught her good, didn't you? Did you teach her physics while you were poun-"
"Jesus fucking christ! Enough! Why the... why are you even here." And his head drops to his hands, a thousand pounds, his palms- a magnet. Suddenly, the ghost backs away, hands up in defense and her eyes grow wider than the good china.
"Who... who are you? I don't know you!" She darts to the corner of the room and pulls the lamp from the socket. Raises it, "why are you in my house, I don't know you!" They've become a domestic virus cycle, continually infecting each other, continually poisoning and vaccinating. "Oh, dear. Jake, I'm sorry... I just, I'm sorry." She places the lamp back on the table and shimmers a bit, flickers as a dying bulb. "Do you smell something? Smoke? Here, I'll light a candle."
james in his white robe;
he'd make wild accusations during group therapy, like that he'd
won the portland marathon twice or created NASA technology to read our
thoughts.
james in the white robe hearing everyone's
brains tick.
i sat in rubber soled socks and wondered if he knew about the first time i'd 
swore-on-my-mothers-grave and lied or the 
dirty things i'd write to girls
during theology class.
james in his white robe watching our eyes dart to double glass windows,
our hands shaking on sharpened pencils, calculating how many days we could get away with
not eating.
maybe he'd been to the moon
in his white robe, listened to our minds, 
and found them 
disappointing.

Friday, June 14, 2013

what decides the layers
of an onion, does he take himself and say
'here,
here i will start new'
or does he just grow and grow
until theres nothing to do anything except 
separate and start over.
what decides the layers
of an onion?
are they parking space buffers or 
couch cushions or suicide
attempts or perfectly sliding
gears.

onions are stupid.
i don't know
i don't sleep that much

she uses the wii fit tennis game
vigorously, [shapes the arms, shapes the arms]
the way she whips egg yolks into submission and i wish she would
whip me into submission, those arms.
the bulge of a muscle like the hint of sleek snake body
weaving in and out grass skin. [shapes the arms, keeps the heart rate
on it's toes]
she tells me;

her back tendons are like ladder stiles and i assume that there is some
sinuous connection between the two of them, keeping her together.
she climbs herself vigorously.

i promise i will make more beautiful words but right now i am filled with
gutter talk and need.
she had a shaved head, a necklace made of animal teeth and a 
Buddhist tattoo. 
"i lost my virginity in a confirmation dress while my parent's
watched"
even the whores have found god;
the world isn't dirty enough for me anymore.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013


i put my hands in my pockets because i didn't know how to 
use them
when you kissed me.
there were twigs everywhere but i don't think you noticed.
i used them to burn down your walls and 
sack your city.
when i was little i used to count my fingers-
maybe i was worried that one day the number would change or maybe
i was just really
weird.

when i was older i stitched my mouth against yours and counted your fingers.
there were ten
which is the right number, i think.

all my essays have the same red ink notes
'wheres the hypothesis?'
and can't they see that
i don't fucking know
yet.


i sold my ipod for 
vitamins.
someone hit me in the face.

advice to the newly defiled

i went to the library because i was drunk
in the middle of the day 
and wrote in all the bibles

'god 
abandoned you, 
get over it.
satan doesn't mind
that she grabs your hair back
[baring your neck like a sacrificial lamb]
and
fucks you from behind'
i look up videos of missing children on youtube
for hours, i fill myself with a remorse that our parents
could never fathom us feeling,
a misery i have no right to,
a guilt you can't wikipedia.

i look up stories of oil spills and black slick
duckings-
voyueristic joy
[hello, i care silently from a screen, 
i am doing 
my part]
the detached grievance i couldn't explain
or translate
on google.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

you buried your face in your hands 
and i buried my head in the sand


that night,
my voice was drenched in gasoline so that every word i spoke 
[inevitably] 
went up in flames.

Monday, June 10, 2013

i sit cross-legged on your kitchen floor, holding a cigarette out of the window while you 
walk in barefoot and lift your shirt 
to show me your new tattoo.
[i'll always be that memory now, you know?]

you hate my smoking because
you want me around for the future.
i spent years joking about cancer and 
look where it got me. 
[touch my face now or maybe in thirty years and see
me young as the day we met.]

i am irony and maybe i am dying.
you joke about marrying me, i joke about
saying yes.

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

they called you a doll when you were young,
with those great big
eyes that eventually caught up and dotted cheek marks;
plastic
little
dresses.
you grew up in a doll house with tall dad and apron mom and your life was just an existence
(erase it like a statistic's equation: if i am 
100% somewhere else, how much can i spare?)


Saturday, June 1, 2013



you were born with the innate ability to 
doubt
anything solid
[these edges are too fantastic to exist anywhere other than my head, 
your hips bones came to me in a fevered dream.]

tell me about the particles of a pond
or the recollections of a fisherman in southeast asia.
the colors you invent when you
close your eyes.