Friday, March 27, 2015

In "The Sun Also Rises", Hemingway describes his bankruptcy as occurring "gradually, then all at once". You do not remember the day that sound submerged, you do not remember the gradual decline of yourself. It was like reaching into the bottom of pond, hands sinking through dark muck like velvet over your wrists. The rot of it dressed up and you, in a dress, rotting. You do not remember when "tomorrow" became a noose, when the seed of escape rooted to the back of your brain. Gradually, then all at once.
A collapsing night, your fever rolls on sweat soaked sheets, you find a phantom standing in the corner- you feel something growing inside of you. There are birch trees bursting from your chest and their branches snaking up capillaries. You take each breath through solid wood. Gradually, then all at once. After seeing the shadow, everything else seems to fade away, you are left with the obvious ghost of it. All at once, you push yourself into some beyond, you hand your keys to restless spirits. They don't pay for gas.
The tock of heels against this concrete floor, mimicking the most demanding of clocks, forcing your
ears to accept it, it shouts like a child. The tick of your breath when a hand slides against a valley of thigh and you think, "this is what the sand must feel each time it's licked by the tide". You've never been good at refusing the ocean. A tock, a revolving door of "okay" and "a little more", hers were the first lips to taste like Russian Roulette and you wanted to hear that click, to make her sink deeper than your tongue, the tock of heels, the bubble expand in your chest when everything is sinking. In my dreams, I am often consumed. In my dreams, I am a piece of gum snapped between her teeth.

I will steal every grain of life and heat it into glass. I refuse to be anything
other than magnificent. Push a head down to worship me, I will stain the entire

Monday, March 23, 2015

i swallow sand bags
each morning with coffee, tiny white blocks of pressed
dopamine, mined like gold from
healthy brains. i swallow bricks and steel, swallow
heavy things to keep me
weighed down to the world.
i have a tendency to float into the sky
if my
ankles aren't tied down like
an air balloon or elephant or carrier pigeon or
north pole magnet being dragged
down south.
always fighting the reverse of gravity,
the pull of
angels or heaven or atmospheric burning gas, always
leaving, always swallowing sand bags and
pretending that i do not miss
the clouds

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

the first time we met we were
binary stars, 
in proximity but substance, we were made
of the same things in different combinations and 
very close but not 
close enough to collapse, different combinations in the way that
my anxiety is not a molten core and you 
do not juggle ten temperamental moons like loose oranges-

and we met again as sea creatures, i was 
spineless still and you with your stringed necklace 
of vertebrate, always a little ahead. 
different combinations of the same things- sometimes i think of all
the times we lived without touching, think of all the times you
did not kiss me in front of the red door and i did not kiss you 
to sleep.
made of different
percentages, my calcium grew to arms and yours grew to fingers, i think of all the 
escape routes- my rubber rib cage compressing through any crack, it is easier to sleep with ten
closed doors or bruised oranges than trust that
i will bind and fuse over ten million years and
be strong enough this time.

different combinations of the same things,
different combinations of the same love, each
as strong as we fear, peace is the feeling of your foot
falling asleep, peace is the feeling of the door closing
behind two people.

we have met ten thousand times over ten million years, we have bartered for 
second chances roughly
50% of the time which i know from the 
rings inside my veins, the ones you scratched seem to
linger longer, made of the same
thing in different combinations, stars crumbled to sand and pressed into rocks, we are strong
enough in different combinations and statistically
good things must happen 
if you try enough times.

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

they used to wrap wet towels around psychiatric patients because the 
could keep them grounded, your 
leg laid, 
pinning me to the hardwood 
i buzzed into sleep last night, the
weight of your limbs
holding me 
to the earth, safe from the storm
of myself.