internet poetry
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spwm day 7
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Lying on the communal bed miles from home and desperate, I bash myself into other conversations, extend earphone tentacle smuggled under sock; laughs at the cover, I swear it’s good, track 14, I listen to it in the shower at home, more laughs; friends whose names I’ve forgotten ask what it’s about, I try to
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on the elevator she steps aside, lets others into the gantries first. she hasn’t seen a mirror in years: in the dark, she feels about her shape, is satisfied with being. what was her name? she knew it was a saint’s. it just had to be. in the dark she swallows even without being asked.
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i. Those fearful,distant words, these hollow,centered wishes; surely in twenty years they’d have expired. But they haven’t. Fossilized, they stay forever: pointed, sharp, piercing, true. These are facts that we cannot change. Bridges we cannot rebuild. Tell me darling how do I tie this rope’s frayed ends into one again? How do I forget the taste
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keep everything within. pack the corners with cellophane, lung with cigarette. tight thoughts without forms: is whoever my pincushion my religion? what is what? is what is, is? questions without answers. journeys without destinations. sealed tight, that unknowable great, that observing cloud, is but a mason-jar of desperation, that’s swirling, and swirling still, never at
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In this house of flies I sit with my mouth agape, two-jaw encore to a wake. Eyes wide and white as saucers. Face masked in a glossy sheen. All insects die; yet here I am, still thriving like a beehive. Someone’s fucking shouting again. The queen smacks the back of my head and again, someone’s
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If I could, I would give myself to some unknowing God, tribal chief, prostrate bone against blood – if it meant that all of you were safe forever. To be kind, this crushing sense of love – it permeates the skin, a henna tattoo. I feel its breath, pressing down on my back, a cape
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Reminded myself not to talk to you. Not even to look. I’m always reminded that I am not Swayze – and you are not a ghost. That this is happening now. That we are not some formless clay spinning on a wheel waiting to be touched. When & how did we end up this way?
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where was the world…
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Last night, I dreamt of an old friend picking up smoking, cigarettes with the look of pencils (because she wanted to be a teacher, you see). I dreamt of people I did not know. Last night, I dreamt, aside from her smoking lead, of a table mired in the middle of nowhere, all of us seated:
ugly stage 