Wednesday, May 13, 2015

whispering poetry through a cracked door-
how many nights did the thin strip of light from underneath seem to

kiss your eyelids asleep, how many nights did you rest your ear to a

rise/fall ribcage and hope to hear sonnets rather than

a soft, vulnerable heartbeat.
i have never been so violently confronted with the fact that sometimes,
we don't get what we want
even if we really
want it.

there is one door, two sides- two bodies,
one body is sick and sneezing and covered in splotches of fever, wants to go to the hospital just for her emergency contact,
one is dirty with sweat and
floor love, tears and hurt, dirty with exhaustion.
both have been cored by the other in several ways, both desire their core back only so that
they can hand it to the other, again.

there are two doors
and only one of them opens even though you're sure that the other contains exactly what you'd want
if you could find the key.
there are two doors and one strip of light from underneath the one on the right,
there is music floating in and dancing, there is every party you ever missed
because you were too busy fucking, every party that you do not regret missing.

there are no lights behind the second door and there are sounds of quiet sleeping
and some modern forest decor. there is a biohazard sign, there are signs all over warning you that 98% of the occupants are sick and splotched in fever and 98% of the occupants will die from fever but you have a 2% chance of becoming immune
forever and this specific fever causes nausea, headaches, and hope. delirious hope.
there is a wet floor sign that says, "sorry, this is dangerous, i waited until the last second to clean and i'm afraid i've merely made it worse but just, give it some time and maybe
it'll be cleaner than before but i can make no promises because i am a sign and you are a lost, confused, person. keep searching, you aren't even close yet"
there are two paths, there are two doors,
one of them contains a maze that you can enter but never solve, one contains something
that is simple and easy like a rubix cube with three sides already solved. you assume that the maze is constructed of nothing but unsolved rubix cubes and that it might make a lovely aesthetic but probably not because there are still signs all over, it seems easier to have a flat coat,
there are two rooms
and you know that you can enter one before entering the other but cannot enter the other if you enter the first, first. perhaps you wouldn't even desire one if you entered the other but god, if you did, it'd all go to shit. this is confusing.

there are two paths that lead to two doors, respectively. the two doors on the right are both full and empty of her, one door on the left is dark and angry and one door on the left contains every memory and every ticket stub. there are 10 rooms with 10 strips of light but only three sing
or touch your hair. you are not choosing between the rooms, you are not choosing doors, you are searching through every inch of this place for the feeling
or the maker of the feeling, there are 700 hundred doors with 695 strips of light but you can only seem
to find the dark ones, there is a hallway with no doors at all that smells like rotten wallpaper and there are no strips of light and you do not have a flashlight.
there are no doors and no hallways and you have nowhere to whisper your poetry so the words stack up and you have to carry them now, this is confusing- no, wait, i miscounted- there are four doors and 1,500 hallways branching from them and now you are carrying these words like firewood and they are so heavy that you almost want to throw them away or slide them under the nearest crack of light because it would be easier than searching 3,000 hallways for one specific door and one specific light.
and you know that she is hiding
and you do not know if it is behind the first door on the left or the second door on the left
which is very important since one leads to the beginning of the labyrinth and one leads to the
exit. this is confusing, left and right switch places depending on the hallway and the angle of the sun and if you ever really learned the difference between left and right, you'd love to use the "L" with fingers trick but your hands of full of these words which may or may not have ants since your middle itches and it did not previously, perhaps it's the hallway, perhaps you wore the wrong body today and this one was already filled with ants.

there are two doors and you can hear the singing but are not sure which door it is behind, there are two doors and if you pick the wrong one it still might
lead to the other, through a secret wall panel, one day,
maybe, but if you pick the right door (not to be confused with the door on the right, oh I am confused now) then you will only have windows large enough to breathe but not leave and you will not want to leave because this room has all the things for surviving and thankfully, you've brought your poems to build a fire but you are not sure if it
will have her in it even though there's a more than good chance
it will.
maybe she will be in the quiet room and you will be in the quiet room, until then
you think that you might stumble and search-
until then, still holding the paused poems with arms aching worse than the time you
merged on the floor, put your hand inside of her and dragged out the love you thought had dried up and cored each other, called it fucking because
there is a box on the form for fucking and there is not a box on the form for oh god i don't care if it hurts, i am carrying too many poems with clearly printed labels that we will continue
to ignore. "oh, i don't know the name of this one", yes you fucking do.

there are two bodies and two rooms, one hallway, two strips of light
behind the right one (not to be confused with the one on the right)
there is only one door
and it is solid enough
to not let the love out.

Friday, May 8, 2015

"King Darius, any man who pray to other idols or request anything
of you shall be put to death, shall be fed
to the beasts"
Daniel spends
1.50$ more on coffee at the store because it is closer
and faster. Daniel spends
too much time saving time. Darius is always
pulling his hand and wasting Sundays, Daniel
has no time for it,
Daniel wishes his watch weren't broken,
Daniel wishes he had an hour to spare.
Darius calls and says,
"baby come back, i will give
all you ask of me"
Daniel says,
"will you bare your teeth?"
Darius calls and says,
"baby, i swear- if you pray to other gods and i will have you
ripped apart"
Daniel says,
"i choose the lions"
in the morning, he prays, begs
Daniel to be whole. 
Darius calls into the pits and says,
"baby come back, i will file my gentle claws into talons, i will shed my
soft for this"
Daniel says,
"darling, i haven't the time,
i am more lion than man,
i can never give you
the meat of me"

they say that my rowboats are cruel, the whispers i leave at your
doormat are cobras and your ankles
hold the puncture of someone who desires without
empathy now,
i will not apologize for how much
there is.
you were the most beautiful pocket
i'd ever trusted my coins with
i hope you find your beaches
still, fuck-
if brunches were bodies
the entire city would be a goddamn

Monday, May 4, 2015

port authority, in the summer, smells like blood.
in small quanities, blood is quiet as silk, tiny rivers, the drip of a faucet before the final turn-
port authority, however, smells like
a lot
of blood.
like a murder scene, like a car accident that sat in august heat for
too many hours.
heavy and sweet in torrents, i catch the whisper
of scent and freeze, look down and see
torrents of it, rushing from me like deltas spitting and
distorted time lapses of flowers growing or decomposing or seasons passing while
that smell, the hot heavy smell and me,
draining. i stand on the subway platform and blink six times until the red
half expecting to round a corner and see
a masscre, half expecting to round a corner and see
the inside of my childhood bedroom
panic, heavy blood, pooled and waiting,
to remind me of some war that i still occasionally need convincing i've won,
smell is most closely linked to memory,
i don't go to port authority anymore,
i look at my hands like sundials
and slow things,
i blink away the red, i shake the flashbacks from my head like a
wet dog,
my forearms like a distorted time lapse of
flowers growing and decomposing and growing
and growing
and growing