i'm laughing at the spaces between your words and you're peeling a mandarin
and we're on my front porch, watching my neighbors fall out of love from the eyes of their house
while you give me a list of reasons why we should rent an RV and drive it into the ocean
"for fun," you say, as i comb your old lover's sighs out of your hair and weave mine in instead,
pondering ways to wedge enough ikkyu quotes into your vertebrae that you stand a little straighter the next time someone tries to tell you that you're going the wrong way. "that's exactly
where i want to go," i hope you say. but right now you want to drink dolphin tears and make out with mermaids and other weird ****, so i'm trying to figure out how much of my soul i have to sacrifice to poseidon for a bra made of clams and the ability to breathe underwater.
i haven't slept in a couple of days so
i've been seeing constellations in every face
a vicious, viscous quietness creeping into every hollow space.
celestial bodies collide in my veins: hemoglobin and
mangoes and a chest gently torn open by
the gravity that pulls me through. i've
climbed trees on planets i've never been to,
dined on cosmic lychee and other starry fruits.
i met an extraterrestrial the last time i looked
at my reflection, but my eyes carry jupiter
in times of abjection—i don't believe i'll see her again
so i'll ignore my pretty mouth, trace the crop circles on my palms
instead. kubla khan built a pleasure dome from sound
while i supped on the sun, we hung around
and drank honey from a violin
while jesus christ and shakyamuni sang 'kashmir' by led zeppelin.
i lived outside the walls of clocks, and when i inhaled time
i choked (the anthropic principle is kind of a joke). finally, i
fell asleep when we all coalesced with the andromeda galaxy
because the universe is a dreamscape of human anatomy.
you can wait for the sun to rise
or you can seek it with every atom of your existence
until the soles of your shoes have been torn off by the asphalt
and you reek of salt, and intention, and purpose.
you can look for a cure in the same bottle
where you found the poison, or
you can shatter the bottle, take one of the shards
and cut out the tumor that formed in your chest, then
mail it to the person that gave it to you, along with a list of
grievances that include the hospital bill.
you can dig a ditch six feet under the ground, put on your sunday best
and rub yourself over with mud,
or you could politely show your enemies the bottom of it,
and the health benefits of shutting the hell up.
you can hate yourself,
or you can realize that the only reason you do
is because your mother raised you to be weak,
so you can look her in the eye
as you break all of your bones, laughing.
she is an astronomically shattered spectacle with a grin upon her face,
serenity salvaged from suffering,
humbled by her pain.
her memories tinged dark by rotting apples and condensation from neglected glasses of water leaving rings on the wooden dining room table.
the shadowed corners of her childhood home gave her more love than her mother did, embraced her, kept her warm in their ninety degrees. waiting for godot was more lucrative than waiting for mom to come home, and the nights were like the older siblings that played with her out of pity.
she does not carry stars in her hair, nor poems or planets.
she carries wounds, and rust, and self-abasement
because she has lived a life with more slings and arrows within a sea of troubles than any outrageous fortune could amount to,
a little girl's body cursed with an all too aged soul.
lulled to sleep by winds that carry whispers and cleave themselves to her atoms, singing odes to her defects.
she does not do work that makes her hands bleed, but her mind does in their stead,
palms smooth like the stones cast against her,
wrists smooth like the mountains she's been trekking.
within the confines of the universe, she exhales as dust and dirt tinge her tongue.
the millions of miles between stars are waiting for someone to walk their borders.
she is going nowhere fast.
i wait within your amygdala to graft myself into your emotions—
you will feel for me what i cannot.
deviate from your daily devotions;
you are my sentimental argonaut.
i dance along the colorless borders of the home i call your languid embrace—
dipping my head towards yours, i sleep.
in my dreams, you and i are wrapped in lace;
awakening in an empty bed, i weep.
the dusk sends salutations with a smile from the moon and a wink from andromeda—
the sun shuts its heavy eyes and disappears.
amongst love and other strange phenomena
i live in your amygdala and consume your fears.
tonight i'll get drunk on stolen time
because i have nothing but stars left on the line
and wings to burn in a solar embrace
everybody's a devil or a deviant inside of this place
i saw it once, in a time of abjection
in which you gave me a direct venesection
your words flowed through my aorta, then subsequent arteries
"what a peculiar girl," you laughed heartily (ha ha ha)
i always confuse lazarus with lapis lazuli
because when i was young i was rather unruly
but they always told me that if i tried
i could find myself a spot in a cerulean sky
i am the wax that drips from thunderheads
and with my umbras and undulations i rouse the dead
they told me life flies by the longer you wait
so i burnt off its wings and locked it away
you are lovely in the light diffused by the clouds
like bruises on an orange creamsicle,
wind playing games with our hearing:
i think i have always known you, it sings, its voice a syncretism of
yours and mine
the trees die extravagant deaths and autumn is both the murderer and the funeral procession, and i
can't help but laugh every time you say you've never felt weather this cold—wait until you kiss me, i think
because you are a desideratum of a desiduous tree, and i am
some kind of plummeting, some kind of fall