03/19/18

how did I go from:
flinching at his touch to:
enveloping him
because I finally made tears fall. I can see now
it is possible to comfort someone who has hurt
you and feel numb. to bring the hammer
down and instantly shush the wreckage back
into a whole; I have never seen him
as this: open mouth, desperate
eyes to the sky through monochrome
night — I take it back, I take it back —
you rock, squeeze, rock, breathe

squeeze your eyes, bury your face
into the tremble until it is absorbed
back into you and it is
better, it is
the same

this being: this ball of serotonin, the swaying
laugh: you’ll be ok. the next morning had
good lighting. it was sunny.
crying is manipulative, I say.
you nod.

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11/11/17, 1:54am

The first time, we were coming
down. Surreal, soft: I am yellow
and she is brown and you
are gleaming, you are all gleaming.

I am a pendulum: disbelief/wonder/disbelief.
Who could you possibly think I am?

Fairy lights and jaunty conversation
about your day your day your day and this
is how I find out your parents
dogs / apple muffin mix / hospitality with a drawl
were in town to see everyone
every one every single one: oh, you say
they just love love loved everyone: my love
love love who am I if not at least
a part of the definition
of your everyone — it passes,
flashes, and I wonder wonder if
the knife was yours
or just another on the path
I walk to be by your concrete.

I know we know maybe you know you you all
don’t know don’t know what it’s like to be un
unworthy by unknown rules
uninteresting by assumption
unwelcome unwelcome unwelcome
by default I know I know I know
but how could you not
even try

Frank Ocean fucks me up consistently:
sure, sometimes I look you up
peruse the life you run, the one
I hear about when it’s paused, the people
you see who are like you
gleaming, always gleaming. Love, you
whispered: love;
love: why are you single on Facebook?
When did you/we/you/you decide you
you/you/you were single on Facebook?

Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong, nothing’s
wrong wrong wrong

I know I know sometimes I throw knives
at you but does it matter if you don’t
notice? I am small and you are big
and maybe this is the only
why why why for which we fit. I I I am
not so blameless but a knife from you
is a knife for us
and I I I am sorry that I
that I require a saint from you
of you I am sorry
sorry, sorry no, sorry no
more

even when I yell you think I don’t try / help me
convince me that these are more than singular
post-teen trivialities

We shes watch the room unfold
smooth with our backs against the dry
wall; invisible women, sore thumbs, melanined
bruises among paper cuts. You smile
so we smile but mostly we are quiet, struck
sponges on land foreign holding in our water:
daughters, we float enough still to drift
away.

10/30/17, 1:34am

It’s not that we are too good. It’s that we are simply
good, with a healthy tinge of non-heaven that
I, because I am me, use to slit paper cuts
into the back of my neck, at just the right spot where
your torso is too long to spot it when you cradle
my healthy, my limber, my happy. It exists
quotidian, flaring as thorn ends prick at
the open, sizzle hiss snap as my smile grows
frozen and sad and worried
— excuse me, is my neurosis showing? How embarrassing
— and frozen, and frozen, and still, and
— Is it truly possible that you never feel this way?
What would it have been like to blossom
a yellow among yellows? Does it matter
that it’s the system and not you
not me if what we have in the end
is still you still me? Here’s my
Burt’s Bees: noticing makes for pain
but not fault: you can believe that I say
there’s quicksand below me but because
you don’t see it you forget. Sometimes a bucket
of gold is just shitty milk chocolate in foil.
Sometimes the foil makes for a cutesy crane.
But when will I tire of folding? Sometimes
I want nothing more than for you
to suffer. That’s an urge I’ll squash
until I break, because what love do I know
more deeply than self-sacrifice via self-
destruction. For me myself and I, a pit.
For you, an apple muffin, an afternoon
with dissolved edges. Lilacs and chamomile.
Snow. Blue.

07/25/17, 8:10pm

Sure, it was you

who did the thing. It’s a hassle

in some regions more than others, but somehow

it was relatively quick, a trip to L.L. Bean on the way

home; you were going anyway to buy a sleeping bag,

size small. The mouth fit smoothly into your pencil box. Your bike chain is still

an arms lock. It jostled against your groceries

as your legs folded over and under

you swerved around mothers-to-be who muttered

obscenities, misdirected hate being a common side effect

of love. Sure, it was you

who went to the registry, told the mustache

at the front desk: I solemnly swear to use this

only to hunt quail. But you’re from the California coast, where it’s seagulls

who snatch snips of bean burritos.

You left me a letter after I left, quietly, out

at 1am wearing pajamas. But just as one’s trash is another’s

treasure, words twist, feline, as they fall

on different ears. I’m not done shooting. I’ll hide

this gun in a pocket, or a winter

coat lining, perhaps nestled in the middle

of a belt buckle, or maybe in a pill

bottle of my medicine shoebox. I’ll slowly forget. Then

one day, I’ll find it, a surprise time

capsule, and we’ll see then if I’ll cry. But

the plan is a slow sprint. You become a totem pole

on a subway station bench: hair flopped on long

face cradled in palm propped up on

elbow weeping on

a box that is your comfort

object until you send that away,

too. You have finally become a post-

card: even the kid with Beats

across the tracks means something when framed

by train bars. Isn’t the train towards the Bronx

on late nights already an alternate universe? Up

is down and down is: you wish

you never picked that particular

petal of that particular violet. This city

is a museum of public woes. When the scratched

words brush your reddening eyes, nothing can stop

this pole from toppling over, wetting

into your surrogate mother’s sheets

two symmetrical puddles a spinning mind’s

distance apart even though you

had the entire goddamn thing

memorized. You’ve never seen a god-

damn quail in your life.

07/25/17, 2:48am

you have made progress! this progress is painful, but it is progress. you can not deny what you felt. you could not keep going that way. that was not an undesirable path, it was an impossible path. you could not keep going that way. you can not change what he can give. this is progress. do not go back. do not fall back to limbo.

he didn’t want your expectations.
he didn’t want your trust. he doesn’t want your trust.
that wasn’t a slip in a charged moment. he knew
what that meant. he knew what
that implied. he knew what that entailed.
you laid down all your cards, every last
one: he made the final decision. you loaded
the gun and pointed and he pulled
the trigger, that was all he did
in the end, shot the can of worms
you shared so they could finally writhe
through your hands. There’s something

freeing about being so dirty that you gladly caress
the slime: you can’t believe it; it’s as if: finally. Finally
you’ve shaved your scalp but only to reach
inside your head and pull out your innards
of the skull; you’re getting into the empty kind
of meditating and you’d heard they were obnoxiously
sentient sometimes, sometimes like
when you finally fold your clothes, you face the drywall, like when
you enter with one headphone in and leave with both
shut tight as the double doors of
your childhood, one for each ancestor: the orchid
and the bee. Sometimes it’s not okay to cry
in front of the little bird who has told you
more secrets of yourself than
you knew you had in you, though
you wonder if it knows anyway
without needing to see the sound-
less spread of a shadow on a carpet.
Is that the secret of the little bird? Sometimes you must

close the door through which you entered without knowing
where the exit is or if it was meant for a person
such as you: it’s ok to sit in the dark just as
it’s ok to install the shadow
of yourself on the floor of lobbies in
apartments and hotels and offices and point
its empty eyes at nondescript tile so confidently that night
shift security takes one look at your crumples and thinks: not this
one, not today. Why bow your head in prayer when you can look
up, up to slopes, slope the neck to
a dejected question, up so
the cheekbones become your personal twin
electrical towers; tall enough to draw the whip
of lightening depending, of course, on the height
of the sorrows around you. If you generate
enough water you might conduct energy, a new kind
of life. Electricity’s a bitch and, contrary to popular thought, often strikes
the same place over and over again just for kicks. A tip: do not

be so sure that the tallest takes the hit. Another one: don’t
swell there for too long, sweet sow, sweet
sow. Didn’t you buy the morning
glory seeds to cover the escape hatch with the wonky can opener? Didn’t
you swear to drag yourself from eternal sunsets? Even worms come up for air
only in between showers. Remember: there are other
natural disasters on your bucket list: sharks to poke, seas in which
to flirt. You are not yet done breaking.

07/23/17, 10:50pm

Excuse me, but I do believe we have met
before. There is simply something
about the way you walk, talk, move

with your shoulders thrust back
when you step and your neck crooked
forward when you focus. Your curls are ever so

slightly flattened on the side you slept on
this morning, though sometimes it is the back
after you leaned against both of the shitty thin pillows

and the blanket propped under
with a warm bag over your eyes to ease the ache
that is always there. I could never

understand how your eyes never fluttered
shut against your will, as did mine
to initiate our nightly routine

of apologies. Sometimes we both shivered
in cooled air with our insulation squashed
under and our will to change the controls encased

in a pool of wax from the end of your candle
we shared, which is to say, we would miss,
just as when I carried a stack

of poems across a park and they saw
a woman alone, just as when I brought
home a grapefruit torn

in fleshy abundance and tacked it
to the wall, let the juices weep
along the drywall, diluted blood

of my thoughts drowning<
in a cup; sometimes my best wine
sours to acetone, in certain company.

But perhaps then
we have not met, because the individual
I am thinking of has a smile that pulls

plump against flat teeth, eyes that crinkle
like aluminum foil around sandwiches
with far too much mayonnaise

for my liking. I eat pale food
only when in certain company. When alone,
I much prefer a riot of green

with enough salt that a person
like you would gasp
enough that I would season

our portions separately in the future,
back then. We have different tastes,
you and I. I do not thirst

for that same flesh. Kind sir, I do
forever, give you my best. I’ll take
that cake now, please, thank you.

07/23/17, 11:31am

Sprung from your forgotten dreams, it came
in the morning, followed you from crooked bed to quick
turn of the doorknob, the eyes turned to the cool
grain away from the soft groan of his consciousness.
It trickled and pooled against the pads of your toes,
weighted your skin to acquiescing gel
into well-worn grooves. It vaulted
up into your mouth and churned the foam
rancid; you spat it out with tenderness
of habit, just like when you bid him Good
Morning to unsure silence fading back
onto itself. You still share the soap. Will you still

splash your face in the hectic s he showers, separated by white
muddied curtain and tamed by familiarity?
A tickle breaks long through the mane
of your calf and you wonder how
a drop possibly made it past
your fingers, holding guard at your budding
crows feet. Perhaps it distracted you
with its curiosity, kept you howling into the night
with laughter such that you did not know
that you’d somehow joined the wild dogs.
How sly it must have been. How much crying is too much

for the end of era that began not in the year of the Ox
but in that of Sheep, which Travel China Guide
and not your mother must tell you: the curve
of the ram and the hard corners of the ox
were never meant to groove. Maybe you should have
checked the legend, first, instead of believing
you knew the way more than did the statisticians
that came before you, the old women
of science who flourish of circles
and not infinite lines stretching past stars
you’re worried no one else sees.
This isn’t how you want to be:    mad

as predicted. Somehow they knew to give
you the codebook. Whose fault is this if they knew
you would tear it to shreds, trample it
with your wheels, light it with gas fire
from a shitty stove in a New York City apartment
only to find this: it has followed you into the gentle

illumination of a streetlight in an alley quiet enough
to be deafening though the cars are never too far.
What a blessing these slow moments are, you know
even as your body stings with the salt
on your bites. Nature gives needle and first aid.

You now know how to snip this particular type
of thread, the one that runs though one temple and out
the other, the last one. He will leave first,

as he does, and you will bike these streets
through and straight out. If all goes well,
you will return.