"autopsies" poems
Autopoiesis.
Autocorrect: Autopsies?
Such a pessimist.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
Do not abort words from love's womb;
she will choke herself
because she could not be a mother.
Stitch lips together. Let silence,
nothing,
be purity.
Words end.
They
are hot and furious, oozing
sores relishing in their own
blood.
Organisms,
dull black embryos, eyeless
until
roiled on red tongues;
spluttered, screamed, snaked
out into being.
They heal themselves to death by the hemlock of Time.
Dying is a definite thing - words are not
immortal, not greater than us.
Not love.
Autopsies reveal varied, unwanted truths:
either
heart splintered too swiftly
or
poison turned flesh to gore,
cell by cell.
Do not abort words from love's womb;
you are wrapping the umbilical cord
around your own neck.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
The day you leave daisies in my pocket
is the first time I wore proper pajamas.
Right-handed scissors paint
with matching lip gloss,
attempting to stick words together.
My hands lay limply next to a wine glass
containing nothing but grape juice,
unhappy compromises.
Everything felt pinched and blue.
Last night I decided to write stories on my skin
with little holes in the paper,
nineteen socks under my bed.
I tried to remember the rain,
why it was lovely.
I ended up with wet shoes,
the smell of deserted food court
and secrets billowing from cigarette stubs.
Arizona breezes
carry the taste of hushed whispers,
making phone calls in the place of poetry.
The idea of pheasants,
tiny wrists
black ink crisscrossing,
hurried ‘X’s overlapping.
Flowers grow from stagnant air
Minted antibiotic breaths.
Heart monitors printed in newspapers,
your armada of pre-sharpened pencils
accidentally drip into coffee mugs.
Autopsies knit together,
authors of the curve of your spine.
You keep myths in glass jars
with intricate wire lids.
Why do we question the recipe for battle scars?
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now empty.
i packed everyone's bags,
gathered the last pushpins
from the wall in the kitchen,
and went on with my life.
i made sure to grab
the books we'd hidden in the attic
as well as the photo album
you'd stashed under the floorboards.
i opened the curtains
and then swept the floors.
i made our bed for the last time
and collected the closings
of the dust on the mantelpiece
that nobody ever cleaned.
i got two extra boxes
for all of the medication unfinished.
i marked them "fragile", for they were glass capsules
containing the substance needed to keep my daughter alive.
but her illness didn't **** her.
i was well aware of the dog's bed,
and it found a place
in the passenger seat of my suv.
his quiet whimpers and cries
were all i heard that evening
as i drove away from what once was my life.
when i finally got to my feet again,
i returned to making dinner for myself.
i only knew how to cook for seven,
and i found tranquility in washing things in sevens.
now i made food for one
and washed for one.
i accidentally brewed two coffees this morning,
in hopes you were still here to take it
and laugh at me for making it too strong,
but you're not.
i awoke at noon the day before and sobbed,
for i was used to being awoken by child's laughter
and small bodies climbing into our bed.
tomorrow, i will bring your briefcase to work
and leave it on your desk.
i'll collect it when i go to leave
and frown at the fact you never opened it.
i'll dispatch you three times in the field,
but you won't respond.
i used to see our wedding day,
but now i see your funeral.
i used to see our children's births;
but i've gotten used to their bodies in morgues.
your physical features
become the trauma described during your autopsies,
and our family photos
became the ones used in the funeral program.
the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now a house;
a house with things
that even i can't pack away.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
The exorcist spat out unsatisfied souls,
Steadfastly chained to breathing bodies,
Convincing the living that,
The dead haunt us.
But, when I examine autopsies,
I observe granular goosebumps,
Rising from sunken skin,
Scientifically speaking,
Corpses confirm the opposite:
Life haunts death.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
performing autopsies on our old conversations
dissecting every angle and standpoint
checking every pulse-point and spark of life in the words you once said to me
and while i know them to be poison laced, nothing seems amiss
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
Do you still perform autopsies on our old conversations?
Or do you let their existence decay,
just like you did with your love for me?
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
I still perform autopsies
on our dead conversations.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 12:14 AM UTC
I've got a case of something great
It keeps me bed-ridden and turns my hair grey
I can't tell you much, don't mean to be vague
But you best avoid me like the black plague
Black magic don't show up on autopsies
But I'm on to you like pods on peas
You serve shiny apples with insides of grease
But luck gave my lifeline a different disease
You may have your **** cult, your secrets, your juice
A Romeo's charm and a drug dealer's boost
The keys to the castle, the rich man's caboose
But down in the basement, you'd reach for the noose
In the woods, with the black doves and mourners
Would you still have the strength to scorn her?
Alone in the woods, with no sight of the border
Would you tough it out or be the sojourner?
You think you know black
But you don't know jack
You think you know white
But light is a different stripes
Her bare skin is painted on
Her carcass is so transparent
Traversing the cellar door
Her whimpers would outrun the roars
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
...
This morning:
The quiet bleeds when you're not looking.
i did not know that the quiet could bleed.
Depression enters my room,
the garden wails in protest, death kisses my stomach,
Sadness whispers that she will not take my chalk outline and teach it how to walk today.
Today the sun stops working.
My mother buries
whatever slowly died in me
under the duvet.
Last night:
i guess,
anything can be a gun
if the darkness surrounding it
is hungry enough
i don't know how i make it to his bathroom
in time, but i can already feel the autopsies
they will preform on me;
i tame ugly screams beneath it all,
tell myselff it's not suicide if
love hangs in my mouth.
The other day:
"i have no sympathy"
"if it's killing you, then why are you still with him"
This particular stain of anger never quite
reaches my reflection in the mirror.
But it sets my clothes on fire.
All the same,
i seethe endlessly; and slit the throat of forgiveness so
it is not an option i could consider.
My father wakes up inside of me sometimes;
i am not afraid to be
a weapon in which i was designed,
a nuclear war in which i will return home from.
A while ago:
"you need to figure things out between just the two of you, none of your girl friends should be threatening my baby boy"
"i would have married a man i didn't love..."
for the love of GOD---
To ALL the adults who have tasted false wisdom
and wish to share it with me;
do not speak to me as if you could translate my suffering
for me, you do not look like a ghost to me,
do not treat me like i do not know that trauma is a thief to my innocence, you do not look like a victim to me,
do not ******* tell me* that i am to contain myself to your benefit, because you know nothing but the way my name tastes on your lips,
i will
paint targetson your back,
with your own words--
and i will feed you to
the bullet feast when you least
expect it.
Don't patronize me with your ignorance disguised as watercolors.
Later tonight:
A little like all at once,
all over the world,
i fall out of love with you.
i used to baptize myself in
the things my phoenix would whisper to me,
all his solids and shadows
oh, the world was so beautiful in his eyes.
And how i wish there was a softer metaphor
that could lower me into this grief,
cause isn't heaven heavy enough,
isn't this hurting plenty?
Now:
i don't know how to describe the aftermath
other than----
"*there is just a lonely hum in my mind
where my name used to be.*"
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
In the beginning people called you a brick. But you weren’t perturbed
You stripped off weight, revealed svelte contours. Emerged fit.
You added bling. Bells and whistles unimaginable
Not shallow though. Shrewd and calculated
You made yourself valuable. Desirable
Everyone wanted a piece of you. I wanted you.
I got you.
In turn you gifted me everything I wished for. Everything I’d need
You brought me knowledge, broadened my horizons. Exposed me to the world
Sometimes enlightening, sometimes shocking
There was nothing you wouldn’t reveal
You organised my life, gave me direction. Connected me
Provided for my base needs. Oh the sweet ***** ***
But you were aloof
For all that you offered, you were indifferent to the price
For the good there was bad. For freedom, I gave you control
The world cost me community. Truths cost innocence
Exposing, I was vulnerable. Revelations rent me disturbed
As my go-between none could see me but through you
You took my connections and reset them. Manipulated my self-esteem
Self-esteem I relied upon
With you as my medium, misunderstandings became commonplace
Relationships once solid showed cracks
With disconnect you scrutinised these divides, and made them gulfs
Analyses became autopsies, on associations seemingly dead
So be it. I’ve seen enough. I’m too far down this path
I wouldn’t know how to change it. How would I even attempt to?
But I knew once
Maybe the problem is you. Your heavy on me once more, like that brick
I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, but there are some things you can’t
I must wrest back from you my connections with community
The bond with those important to me
You can have the world. It’s fame, flattery, insults and disgrace
I just want you to make a call
I gotta phone a friend
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
I lost you
And I'll regret it always
But sometimes when I catch myself thinking of you
I say that if these hands were to ever reach for you again
I'd cut them off
I'm done performing autopsies on conversations from a lifetime ago
I didn't bury you in the past
I expelled you
You don't hide in some corner
No
I polished my heart with all the good
You lost me
And I'll regret it always
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
Patio swinging, my legs
up to push me
back and forth,
a cover of sun-
light dancing and
swooping in
all of the arches
the dips
and the bows
the silent shapes
of physical
existence,
a jar of tea
in hand and a book
of poems,
open like a corpse for
dissection, a body
to study, to poke,
to pry to
find
the way that
insides make
the outsides
move along, shh
come along with me.
It's patio swinging in
Oregon summer
where the mud wasps carry
heavy,
drooping legs like
tired sunflowers who
can't bear to see the sun
overwhelm another Indian
sky
so hear, I lie,
where I'll always
lie
my bony legs pushing back the
patio swing
my doll hands performing
autopsies on
Ginsberg and Bukowksi
bathing in sunshine and
prosecting poetry
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
i read today
that
sometimes
during
autopsies
they find ink
pooled
in the lymph
glands
of people
with
multiple
tattoos
and
i got
to
wondering
if they
opened
up
my
brain
would
it
be full
of the
ink
that
runs
through
my
veins
the ink
that
drips
and
seeps
into
my very
soul
aided
by
the word
i
inscribe
and
etch
upon
my
bones
the ink
that flows
in a
long
continious
scrawl
eminating
from
my
poets
pen ..
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
i was watching
Shane's funeral
beautiful
and deservingly so
and i wondered
who would come to my funeral???
(debt collectors
police
2 x-wives
DEA)
(surely
i'm heading to purgatory)
perhaps she'll come
the woman who wants to be a mortician
i meant her at the liquor store
i answered her ad
in the A.P. press,
it read, as follows:
Female, a young 60
likes UFO stories
and exorcisms
loves to watch autopsies,
has a potato chip
that looks like D. Trump!
(not for sale)
will be in front of BY-WAY Liquor store
7 a.m. Tuesday. Gladys.
and one thing
led to another
SO,
here i am
and the the smoke
from the camp
fire's
burning my eyes
i'm on my 18th can
of miller light
Gladys and me
are looking for
UFO s
Feb 13, 2024
Feb 13, 2024 at 4:31 PM UTC
earth wakes like a blinking marble
worm cake
ravine of ravenous hunger
breathing bowl of fruit
and black hole cauldron
of spit and sediment
where life grows like debt
disembodied skyward souls
who's haloed ground
a funeral coif
of etched intaglio grim headstones
that remain arcane symbols
of refuse underworlds
sunken under black beds
shaped like centuries of tragedy
in moldering graves
and dusty trailer park archaeologies
cosmologies eclipse
open pleasures and sultry winds
that form charades of architype golden eyes
impregnating us with dreams
like animated tarot cards
while body-caged man-o-spheres
on apocalyptic mountain sides
crawl and claw in endless nights to thrive
with every breath and squalid gasp
***
we propel ourselves through this life
by sacrificing the present for the future
in arduous labors of discord
and glowering autopsies
of smoke & blood
until we remain
unable to live with ourselves
i vaguely remember
traveling disembodied
like a new sun
past empty hulled tenements
where the living dead
perform soap opera cameos
as sliding doors
open and shut
like switchblades
on withered clanking subways
of shuffling bones
all the way to Hades
time bruised and beaten
bedlam of age
we each fall forgotten
grey as pulping zombies
shuttering downwards
from primordial nuclides
of contagion and death
gossiping Doppelgangers
on tesseract winds
witnessed energized prodigies
teaching the dead to construct dreams
with drum stick rhythms
and flutes of savage craving
in meta whirls
that mobilize astral spitfires
faster than tachyons
in a forever extravagant next world
monster infinity
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 3:07 PM UTC