[harrishanie]

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[harrishanie]

Place your loving arms around me.

[harrishanie]

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[harrishanie]

New forms of uselessness are invented each day. Their discovery must be our sole sublime achievement.

[harrishanie]

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[harrishanie]

[harrishanie]

I think of myself mostly as a victim of chemical weapons.

[harrishanie]

Yukio Mishima, 1940.

[harrishanie]

Universe of ripsaws and rats

[harrishanie]

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[harrishanie]

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When you held me in your arms, my life was in your hands.

[harrishanie]

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The only thing that I got’s been bothering me my whole life

[harrishanie]

I dreamed last night that my parents asked me to pick up their mail from a very distant post office. When I brought it to their house, they asked me to open it for them. In one of the boxes, totally loose, were pieces of fried chicken. About a bird’s worth maybe. I asked my father why they had ordered this, and he said that it always comes out better through the mail. I cut into the chicken to observe it, and it was totally soaked in blood. He told me this was fine and took a bite, grinning with stained teeth.

[harrishanie]

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[harrishanie]

I remember the color yellow, somewhere else around your face,

Blasted wet with press-on shapes black and red on moonshine plates,

Turning blue-eyed and blind and laughing-hued, soft white teeth breaking through,

With rocks half-sharp jutting up like new bones in our backs, pearls of lime kicking inwards over leaves of glass,

On bike tires streaking, heavy set upon the hill,

On beat-down flip-flops, lucite-veined on the hedgehog’s brow,

On black, on white, on agonized strife, on dexadrine highs and gay largactyl streaks,

On daysick dreams held much too long, on mattress sweat and heaven rope,

In words left empty,

In fruits unpeeled,

In placemats pressed with the clearest dirt,

In socks left crumpled underneath the floor,

Like a ray of light peaking over my doorhenge, yellow blest me awl for life--yellow blessed and      breast, twenty years forever gone--turn back another day.

Amen.

[harrishanie]

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[harrishanie]

I’m propped against your headboard in an imitation of sitting, knees drawn high around my sternum to hold me upright. One of your pillows is behind my back to keep me from staining the wood, but the gaping cavity of my ribs is leaking onto your sheets. All of my organs have been carefully removed, and when you hold your pearl white hands up to my still face I can smell my insides from under your long fingernails. When my head falls loose, you cradle my chin between your fingers until my grey lips are parallel with your own. I disgust you. I must. You lift your legs so you can mirror my pose, but when your weight shifts the mattress pulls from under me and I collapse, crumpling onto the floor in front of you.

From “Parasite No. 3,” which I haven’t meaningfully worked on in over two years so I might as well call it abandoned. Most everything I’ve worked on has been abandoned! My greatest regret is not finishing “Girl on a Toilet” when it was perfectly crystalized in my head. Now I have twenty pages of notes and six hundred scraps of paper that don’t make any kind of sense under any circumstance. I write on the toilet so that later I can throw it in the garbage. Nothing else but emetic waste. Love always.

[harrishanie]

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[harrishanie]

I met someone the other day who reminded me of you. She works at the post office—the short, little woman who finds the packages people weren’t there to sign for. I was wearing the old khan ran you gave me, and when the woman saw it she reached out to grab it and nearly started weeping. She had come here from Vietnam as a refugee when she was only a little girl—her brothers and father had all died in the war, so she and her aunt raced out of Saigon in a rickety, cramped paddle boat that, eventually, lead them to the United States. Her mother, she said, stayed behind to look after the family who were too frail to leave, promising to meet them in America as soon as she could. Every few months she got postcards and letters from her mother saying it would only be a little bit longer before they were together again, only a little bit longer—until, suddenly, they stopped.

Her mother, she said, had found some men who claimed they could take her to Hong Kong, from which it would be easier to get to the states. She gave them all her money and they told her to climb inside a hole they’d made in the gas tank of an old Jeep, just barely big enough to fit her slender body, to hide her on the first part of the journey. They turned the engine on, not driving anywhere, and she died choking on the fumes. They took her body and dumped it in a marsh with all the other people they’d done this to. It wasn’t until years later that she found out what happened to her mother. She just thought she had been abandoned.

[harrishanie]

Thank you, Wes.