desvaríos

desvarío [des-vah-ree’-o] noun//an extravagant action or speech//delirium, raving, giddiness

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

This was all a misunderstanding please Had gotten into trouble again, drugs, but this time And of course I was thinking Which meant a constant stream of Smelling of whiskey and stale cigarettes

I didn’t say a word. And stare at his hands and weep, Instead she poured them both drinks And he would be able to face what he had to face The fucking thing never arrived!

Allowing the rest of the world to catch up I will love you always, A loneliness that obliterated all memory A distant figure who struck in her such dread, We have something to give you

When the applause broke out, Take it from me. Help clear his head Self-hate short-circuited their minds? I guess I want to try something new.

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

for a long time, no one dies you pretend sadness as you watch adults with hearts like knifed canvases it will come like a hurricane water howling sideways it will come like winter-hardened cement thirty petals dropping to the dirt when they extend their hands all you see is the emptiness turning them palms over and over, i am trying to teach myself how to ache

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

Because I can never keep my word-

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

this was it- this was the fear of all fears and i feel as if it wasn't i am hungry again itching for it all i am so hungry crawling upward out my throat and rooted rooted in my gut you are the only thing that keeps me from throwing it all up in the air

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

It's easier to lie to those you don't know- She looked for somewhere to throw away the filter And I told her I'd put it in my pack, that I'd take care of it So her pocket wouldn't smell Only later I tossed the two out the window When she was out of sight

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

And instead of your sour morning breath All I breathe now is nicotine ragged smoke

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

journal entry- may 31-

these lines must come to me in transit, i'm moody because life is unclear. never did i imagine feeling so grumpy about where we're at, a thousand hours from where i thought we would ever end up.

i like myself with my limbs askew, folded over like secrets and skin like cloth that struggles to hide it all. relentless are your attempts to smooth me out, to slip through the faults of that broken wall...

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

The prompt was 'river'

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

Les Verts Monts

They say you’re small That I could stand on your tallest buildings And not see over the tops of your golden trees

Flowing, the land of Milk and red clover honey An axe in a tree, spurting syrup from its arteries Festivals of apples made into pie The words of the elderly, cooked into tins Les Verts Mortes, baked lawfully into earth

And you could cross your heart with Greyhound lines and Amtrak tracks But the Green Mountains have no need for a God

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

Lousiana

What if I were formed From the runoff sediment of the Mississippi What if my tongue Tangled in Engl-Afri-Span-Ench Fighting history and culture just to get the words out What if my body Had been scraped down from expansive Territory, til it was just one- State

What if those I knew Dropped their thoughts all over my skin Until I were as littered as your streets What if every summer I Built up my walls to keep your Crashing swells from destroying it all What if all the tears they shed Pulled at my hemline Until I was nothing at all

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

Building said from years Wartime at Nurses

Purge               Shake back other

She came, she after, haunt her

Night began decades elevator Administrative has tried her millions

Turned with life- like age

Memories secretary memories

Worked stops several fraility

To left jobs, but story

And the times,

Apartment frequently war The about always talking she need past

Feels in ago, for rebuilding

Husband not died she-

They lack Variety by She said Said me and her

http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88v/tzara.html

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

April 29, 2013: Surrealist 'Automatic Writing'

Papier mache Just two little catepillars, inching along Three thousand suns Dripping, sticky Elmers glue like the watered down frosting we accidentally made, cracking all over our knuckles Papier mache Wanting something more than this, but not certain what more there could be than The pain in my back, arched over to create and watering eyes with the drying glue It’s been longer It’s been three thousand suns And not much else      

Questioning if there is anything else to this More instructions Like How to peel the glue from one’s fingers and reemerge, something new with a past cleansed More instructions Like How to smash everything, every thought or desire that once filled a head

Where are the instructions?

Tearing through the box, the false bottom. Just new, just sterile and the drying glue morose, mirrored in the light of two thousand, nine hundred and ninety eight suns. Wondering where it all went, if all the rest, every crab shell and skeleton received, greedily ate up, all the rules and now no guidance is left.

We’re a little battered Dumbly blinking around in the sun Dumbly waiting for answers Looking to the sky as if- No not quite.

We’re not sure whether or not to believe in a God, seeing as we never got told if we should. And now, now our masks, they seem dry. We touch them cautiously like fingernail polish- one tap and then a confident pat- we will not mess this up. We won’t. Looking at one another, we make no expression. Not sure if we believe in God, we put our masks to our cheekbones and our eyes crawl inside. We scarcely look at once another. We watch what’s left, we watch two thousand, nine hundred and ninety eight suns burn out like bulbs we never got taught how to change. We watch heat and light dissipate and when we finally look at ourselves in horror, put our hands to our edges, we find ourselves mistaken.

The glue was not dry.

We’ve smudged it, eager to move quickly. There is no edge, there is no soft pale skin, but this, lumpy, horrifying mass we couldn’t believe our own hands created. Make it stop, we beg of the extinguished God. Make it stop, we beg of each other.

No amount of useless prying will rip them off, so we kiss the places where our cracked lips peek through, as if that would be, could be, enough to save ourselves from the painful glue, binding us to what we thought we might like to become.

Harder. Stronger. Hiding.

Are we resigned to this? Will we always be lifeless? Will you never again see my eyes change shape when you speak?

You say you might like it this way. You say your mask is changing your face and now you fit comfortably again. Stop pulling at it, you say, and I push you away because that was in the instructions. Wait, I say. Not like this. The mask reflects the hundred suns, the hundred sins left as it shakes back and forth. I reach for it, but robotic, you pull my hands away. There is no give and take in this world of less than three thousand suns.

And so we retreat, feet away, to watch the last sun, and refusing to die, it quivers in the sky and grows old red with age, emitting no heat, no light, growing cancerous with all the words we’re no longer allowed to say. Is this a joke, I break the rules by asking this, but I am thirsty of the past. Please turn the lights back on.

They’re dead, hollow voiced. Fix them. I don’t know how to. Neither of us do.

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

Barely awake Sunny day

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

You give me a reason to do the things I do

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

April 15, 2013 Going to go through my journals and update this blog with some recent poetry Ps I think I hate this poem

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

Just wrote this for my Digital Poetics class April 16/17, 2013

[anemptypackofcigarettes]

And I want to rush up to strangers Tell them all that you are Yet I won't You with me is a well kept secret We are white light And then at an angle Much more