I meant to write this probably contrived poem using an Explorer as a metaphor for trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing in my life. But fuck Columbus! That guy is bad fuckin’ news. He did not “discover” anything, as we all well know, which means using the Explorer as metaphor is, what? Explorer-as- metaphor would I guess signify a person thinking they figured it all out for the first time ever when really a whole flourishing community was in bloomy existence before the “epiphany?” Thriving. I am me, nothing else. Projection is folly for the eager. I am so eager, but will try not to be. Try to be instead present in my own self-contained discovery.
shortcut seductive
Radar harsh, a luminous gaze and you are not who you want to be, yet. Well, no, in some ways you are. You find Easter eggs in sunken places, in the crevices no one else dares to look. You smile even when the sun sets because you know you are changing the course of the life of another. Many others. And that feeling is magnificent. And yet. You are not who You want to be quite yet. And yet. You are not sure precisely what will propel you, what will rapid your current toward becoming complete. Is it a loving, buoyant weight to level the balance? I think you want it to be that. I think you want it to be hands and arms and comfort and being beyond your own bones. I know that’s what I want. I also know that probably can’t fix it, right? That would be too easy, to admit that with another comes peace within. Peace within cannot come from one without. You are alone. You are All you have is you. Your own. That counterpoint can come. But only after you’ve carried the carcass of question across your shocked and exhausted shoulders. Until then, inhale through nose, exhale through mouth, and master mourning your abnormalities with a slower and more penetrating understanding than another might give. This is perhaps the hardest task you will ever undertake. The shortcut is so seductive. But what is existence without challenge. What are we doing here without something flickering and distant to keep it interesting. Come to know what keeps your own scale in balance, or at least, not unbalanced. Come to know your own mechanisms. The irony is: I say all this in second person advising as if I’m expert. I have no fucking idea what’s going on. I’m guiltier than all of you. And frankly I hope that makes you feel better.
rain glaze like chintz
Rain glaze like chintz hits the sleeping, soggy scratch of snow. Climate confusion, our weeping mother’s tears turning the world to soup. Stay inside, stay inside. Or set one wondering foot into the whorl and watch the curtain wash your sins away, along with the dust on your boot.
the just wrecking ball
I need the items in the apartment before the just wrecking ball comes.
tight and ironed
fuck: my eyes feel tight and ironed. i haven’t cried in so long. and to do it over this, over you, to even WRITE that it’s over this, over you, is so motherfucking stupid. predictable. i’ve never felt dumber. i can be chill. i can be a cool girl, right? i can want to just get fucked hard and then left. i can want cum inside me and then for you to not spend the night. i can offer up my hair to be pulled, i can pull, i can therapise, i can nourish and fill and give. and you have another life. and I Am Okay With That, Right? of course. because it’s my fault if i expected more.
25
Now that I’m twenty-five, does that mean I can offer advice? Hobbies are things to pass the time. “Pass”! For real?? That of which we have a finite amount aught not be wasted on tedium.
the newer life
I think in the natural, the light behind my eyelids glowing through to the interior. I don’t know what to say. it’s just heavenly here. rain in the evening sounds nice and feels good. makes me feel safe, a parallel realm where nothing is hard and there’s no bad and maybe sprites exist for real. and then i think about the newer life. and i feel so sad. jesus. to feel that bad all the time. perfect prism, passive prison.
3-2-1
The drips are streaking like 3-2-beer-drunk teens beyond the past-sunset light of the kitchen window. The string of pearls a density of dots. And outside it’s so damp. Palm fronds look more brittle than they should, and you feel judged. Isn’t interesting just unexpected?
LOL in a poem
How do you think Longfellow would react if he knew I was using “LOL!!!!!” in a poem? Might he think this the ultimate bastardization of the english language-in-meter? He might, just now, be rolling in his gave. Notice I ask about Longfellow. Notice I use him as my example of a theoretically socially “esteemed” poet. This is because Audre Lorde might deem colloquial poetry a way of reclaiming the oppressor’s language and Emily Dickinson might deem colloquial poetry an act of resistance against patriarchy, in her way. Poetry is only words is nothing. We are all just tissue. Or are we even only truly just the conceptive images of others. Nothing matters. Not in a glass-half-empty way, in a do-whatever-the-fuck-you-want way.
Been A While
Been a while, huh. I’ve felt the mental incentive to do this retreating, disheartened, for quite some time. What puts his pointer and thumb to tongue and then againssst an active wick? What causes me to use “he” in pinpointing exactly what has doused any impetus to make ultimately very likely cliché and hideous thoughts and acts embarrassingly record. I don’t feel bad. But don’t make me document.
Secret Poems 