Category: art
Slurry
all in my head
is all in my head
I still catch myself
screwing up my eyes
in the mirror, afraid
to connect deeply, even
with myself. I sit
down in mirrored elevators
avoid mirrored people
which are all people
when you give off light
how easy it would be
to have no light at all
how hard I’ve worked to
extinguish that light
but you don’t pour fire
on fire. you don’t kill light
or outrun it
you are it
you are the place where light
converges, swirling into a pool
you are scrying’s purpose
the loose hands
over letters
you are there now. get it?
there is nothing more to
create. it is created
there is only that which
you will destroy
or won’t
Scully
what part of now will be
preserved? The lights over
the river, hovering then taking off
the donkey under the tarp
the constant offering from cats
of mice, lizards, once a
painted bunting, once a snake while
I was masturbating
Once I saw the cat stalking
the ducks – when they see him
they stand up
he saunters off like this
was never his intention
my intention can be unruly
I broadcast in wide gestures
or none at all
Mulder
be careful with the moon
as it is not your ally
your coat beguiles formal
black with green, purple
you dance first
walk with your hips
seem to be most alive
when others can’t see you
so what are you now?
ghost alive
like a cat
overwhelmed enough to bite
then immediately regretful
embarassed, therefore
more likely to bite
it envenomates the feeling
I’m not sure which is which
whether the light
is actually the light
or the lack thereof
to my Brother’s Spirit
at first, my courage
was naive
it couldn’t have imagined
so it led with that
now my courage
feels old
no longer looking
no longing for something to happen
like Mom said – I knew
there was something
more interesting about us
and I felt it
now I couldn’t care less
I want to live
as long as we can
in case we were wrong
Playing Dead
for a possum to play dead effectively
it can’t look too good
evolutionary priority is given
to the ugly – the mottled fur
the hairless face like carrion
the chitinous tail, the smell
if a possum chooses another
she will do so for its longevity
its eligibility based on ugliness
therefore beauty
the young are carried on the stomach
tight against fat hanging
towards the ground, dragging
through ticks and the litter
disgusting, undesirable
reliable
no one comes for the possum
not the hungry, nor the thirsty
the possum does not pretend
to be alive – it is therefore safe
it is ready to drop dead
at any moment
a long, upturned smile
the secret – to live
while no one is looking
Nebulizer
my breath comes running up, alarmed
holding bags
my breath is sinched at the waist
my breath
is afraid to put it all the way in
my breath is unsure of the door
it rolls up a towel to
block the light
it knows footprints by weight
my breath escapes through
the window, and though it lives in me
it looks like a robber
feels like a robber, like
it has something of mine in its pockets
in this way my breath cares about
what others think
other’s thoughts hurt. other’s
thoughts can be controlled
my breath controls them
oxygen – a bundle of stones in the arms
of my breathing, a breathy voice, a
circulatory mind
my breathing is pot without
a drain hole
my breathing is root rot
my breath continues, though I
miss a few here and there
they fly over my head or
over my shoulder. it is a joke, or
salt, my breath, which today
feels like someone else’s. it is not enough
or maybe, too much my own
Summer 20-22
I feel strongly that
I haven’t done enough
is that today?
always?
humanity beats down
without context
the sun is so hot
it is winter, effectively
a stay-at-home order
a vivid and
continuous temperature
contemptuous integers
I could go back and forth
but I’ve let the dog run
I’ve taken off my shirt
in the early hours
survived a little longer
which is enough
though I know it isn’t
we’ve survived long enough
to know that it isn’t, or
survived past it, or
consumed it
in an act of survival
what a strange threat this is
when those threatened
need more than just their lives
when the monster eats
frivolity, and I reek of it
when our spirits
sneak out at night to touch
our bodies too hot to hold
Fear of Dying
I beg the stars to move –
that is, to have died already
I’m still uncertain of their distance
now more than ever
what would happen if I ate one?
would it kill me? if I sleep
facing the sky, will it breathe me?
if I get bit, will I die?
I am unsure about so much
what does a virus want?
which is the universe
and which is the galaxy?
is it cicadas? or static on
spirit headlamps? or
feverish kazoo music?
Denis? Denis?
could be just a bug
am I doing the right thing?
where do I place
the needs that could kill me?
Nietzsche’s Sister’s Cat
I wonder if the dog, while
holding its mouth open for the cat
ever has thoughts of crushing it
flash images
like a photo continues
outside its frame, does the dog
see itself continue?
does the cat suspect?
suspect is a strong word
surely the dog is not to blame for
seeing. is seeing thinking?
neither one is doing
until it is done. so the cat is cautious
the dog inviting – its neck
thicker than its head
the skull in plates
built for this relief
sure, the cat will trust
the dog one day, but only after
it has never happened
Yell Fuck at Canoe Rental
geese scream hate
over a banjo being played
inside a trailer full
of life-jackets
the geese are so angry
they lose themselves
feathers in disarray off them
dropping two at a time
soon there will be
more feathers on
the ground
than on the birds themselves
you could build a new bird
imagine the feathers cleaned
and colored for crafts
kids attaching them
to their shoes, banjo music
lifting them into the sky
where light is adjacent colors
the music plays on speaker
it will never stop
but eventually the geese do
they scream their necks
into collapse, then
disperse, like light
onto the blacktop
squirming
the light is the same light
as always. we’ve had it
this whole time. it has been
everything since and will be
everything else
it extends beyond the prism
of our atmosphere. it comes from
a fucking star – how can there
be hate?
it is only the brain making
of light what it will
the brain which has never felt
the feeling of light on its skin
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