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Bad Movies

It is alone.

That doesn’t surprise me

But after dreams After your face peering around the door After knowing your voice like a bell And touching you while I sleep And knowing when I wake Drenched in sweat You’ll still be gone from me And while I sit, remembering All small things The smallest things And want to reach you, tell you anything That it’s the darkest

You had skin like speckled silk And joy Beyond my joy You had thirst and wildness And unfathomable pain

And when I stretch out for you When I place my hands over my eyes Or breathe in your strange brokenness I remember

What odd distance compels us now In dark or light Beyond or behind like a twisted ankle

See me again. Remind me you were here.

We are blood line Warmth turned ice and ash

Remind me you were here.

#loss #sister #death #memory #longing #poetry #writing

Only Pale

Through the walls, the voices simmer, slow and languid, loud and bearish. I am alone, today. Outside it is light and nearly warm. Outside someone might be laughing, Trailing groceries in a stroller.

Today is new. It feels new. The dirt that surrounds me is like a cocoon The voices through the wall, like theatrics

How lonely to be mid-day drunk. How tragic to miss a new day.

My windows stay dark, strange and sweet, like a Christmas carol sung into a well.

I remember nothing and everything. In a new year I carry over my sister. In a new year I bless the new ground, turned over like fresh milk.

Bless me. Carry me. I am alone, today.

#new year #poetry #death #loss

One day my veins stopped shaking and my eyes closed, smooth, like weighted birds wings. Something lifted and now you stare with light and our bed is again scented with sweet sweat of early morning sprawls and even in the new cold my skin burns under your rough and blessed finger tips.

little black hair at midnight

Tonight someone is running down my street, heavy feet on the ice and cement. They passed the cat on my porch, the crying one that bit my hand and moved into the crawl space under our house. There are no cars No voices Only strange footsteps and the rumbling from the heat vents

I miss you, nights like this And all the almosts I can't think about whir in the smallest corners

We will never be so dark as on that night We will never be so bleak

One morning, when that tom cat wakes me, howling, I will charge outside, naked or not, and chase him to the farthest alley

#cats #poetry #writing #Caroline myrick #scars

dionysus

after all the thick noise, my disconnect, cheap shots in a bathroom stall, my lank hair pre-wet with liquor sweat--

these worlds I create are smaller and smaller with the night.

and home, where I find nothing. a closed door and drunk joy in the next room while I writhe and squeeze my temples like clamps, muffling myself and blushing at my own weak ways.

sometimes there is no comfort. you know the order of things, your next sick move, what hateful things you'll say in the dark. how someone will forget you.

there is nothing to know in the after. maybe your scent will kill me. though, you're different now. a strange cold I've given you or a deadness I let breed.

#caroline myrick #panic attack #poetry #writing #drinking #dionysus

Grow up sick

I remember a dark time, line time-- videos before dawn, still buzzing while we laugh whispered to each other, wanting sleep, wanting wakeness, drooling for the never ending. There is no time, or was. Only a weak weak heart, too fast beating like a broken fan. The morning can be death in those times. Those times like scapes, small and endless and sad. I long for a brightness, and unforgiving reality, shut-mouthed but satiated. What lies lie within the never ending night. Not living or asleep.

Obscura

They are the blind and blissful, warm homes warm lovers-- Happiness comes free like a natural spring, clear and sweet, smooth over cold clay In bedrooms lit with vanilla wax and wicks, they fornicate like skeletons. All the empty beauty rattling between their bones. A life to live blanketed in a fungal mist. A life to live imagining each day is a gift. A sickness or blessing, there is none to be had for me.

#poetry #Caroline myrick #detroit #writing

Before

Once, the days were long and languid. I baked him under trees, smelling the salt rise off his newly hardened skin.

The water was endless, warm as a palm from the surface to the thick coiling cold of the black garden bottom.

It is easy to love with the future a dark gaping hole.

#old love #poetry #Lake Huron #Caroline myrick

What Saint To Call

Last night I felt your mother's hair, damp, against my skin. I had nightmares right beside you, cold winds rushing in. Still figures curled like serpents round the bed. Your back turned to me like a sweat-specked wall. I try to pray sometimes because I am fearful of most things. The night is dark and I see faces mangled in the black. Not yours or mine. No one's. Only wicked swirling features I've forgotten from fever.

#nightmares #mothers #June #dreams #poem #prayer

traffic

outside louisville a coyote dried flat on the shoulder, teeth ajar, fur matted with brown blood

I pressed my face against the window breathing in its stink.

the first day in five with no rain. all the sick sweet smells rise up from old winter.

#traffic #louisville #kentucky #rain #coyote #death #winter #summer #swan'sbones #caroline myrick

What sins I've sung

Last night I dreamed I found him on the beach, red sweater dripping, seaweed between his fingers. He was small, a foot or so, and I could tell him what I meant to. In a van today that passed, a face looked out like his. I rolled my window down and waved with my eyes but the face was old like sand and he glimmered away, as always before. Sometimes I still feel guilty for my harsh severing, my foul explanation. I fear what punishment I’ve conjured. What lies we’ve both told. Ages and ages ago.

#lies #heartbreak #poetry #Caroline myrick #writing #detroit

Vitamin bead

When my father dragged me by my arms down the street. Nothing to shake. The dream has been done. I can feel my muscles twisted together like frightened roots. The cold is lonely like your lack of breath.

#vitamins #dreams #father #distance #winter

troublepeach

Photo by Monika Mogi

feilian

By Monika Mogi

The Waiting

Everything is slow in the waiting. The dirty picture windows of my sad Congress deli trailed with crawling drops of melting snow. I picture the skin of my mother. Harsh tan lines, soft and thin at some parts or supple like a young girl's. I see my mother standing over me, bathing when I'm a child. Her soap runs down and I am engulfed by the warmth and herbal shampoo. I see the sickness in my mother. What might be growing in the tissue of her motherly breasts. I pull the dark mass out with the power of my lungs. I bless her cells, her bones. Our kind is wild as the deathless vines you've cultivated. As endless as the shipwrecked glass of Superior. But oh, how each day is such pain in the waiting.

#the waiting #mother #Detroit #breast cancer #Caroline myrick #poetry

esvertebailar-deactivated201404

++ http://www.theardorous.com/portfolio/flower-bath/

"we kill roaches"

months ago, I opened a can of baked beans with a knife and the sauce sprayed the ceiling. the ceiling but not the walls or cabinets. I've left the sauce there. like the pine needles from our dead, neglected christmas tree sewn to the carpet and the blackened vomit stains inside the toilet bowl.

remember when I found a cockroach behind the shower curtain and just drowned it against the grates of the drain? I couldn't bare the corpse, hard and wet like a melting cough drop.

what I choose to ignore is all mine-- no secrets. I keep the stains and scents like treasures.

#cockroach #caroline myrick #poetry #detroit #hamtramck

Making the most out of inexpensive instruments.

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