A Jungle Gym of Innocent Chaos

Phillip. They/Them. 22. Poetry. Chicagoan living in Brooklyn.

[illiteratealiteracy]

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[illiteratealiteracy]

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[illiteratealiteracy]

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[illiteratealiteracy]

9/23/16

If you love me, then

publish me; do not keep me

a secret for yourself

[illiteratealiteracy]

196: Ode to the Captain

Johnny put his play-do in the microwave

to see if his old man, ripe with new skin,

green skin, purple in the ears, would dry

any faster, but the colors all melted awry.

He let the sailboat captain burn his hand

as a sister yelled hot potato, hot potato

in circles around him, blowing his black

cape from side to side. Being Johnny, he

strapped on his viking helmet, climbed

over the pool wall, placed the captain

at the helm of the wooden sailboat he

made the summer before with his dad.

He sailed the single sea without a doubt

while I was in the kitchen, still scraping

off bits of the captain’s big blue beard,

trying not to burn my hand on leftovers.

[illiteratealiteracy]

9/22/16

the stairs turn left, left

always left, around, and I

fall into myself

[illiteratealiteracy]

9/21/16

We'll never be the

lovers that carry

empty suitcases

[illiteratealiteracy]

195: Open Bar at the Wake

a tissue box of ashes

and a picture instead of a casket

the cousins dim silent

on a dime drop, the priest

hovering in gold silk forward

the wake - whist instead -

my aunt flooding glass

with heavy pours of red

we’re all legal drinkers today

our bellies doused

an uncle asks about the weight of it

as if I could feel each new drop

then my grandmother leans over

and I take whatever weight she gives

trying to stand straight

[illiteratealiteracy]

9/20/16

you smoke cigarettes

in Chicago and I can

taste them in New York

[illiteratealiteracy]

(illiteratealiteracy)

There’s a pigeon in the trashcan, beating

wings against the thick plastic covering.

A man, then a woman with a small mutt, stopped

to listen to claws battling the rubber of trash bags

and watch the lid nearly jolt open.

I came home to the crowd, a gambling ring

taking bets to when the bird might break free.

The neighborhood began to drink beer, local

beers and cheap beers, sit beside me on the stoop.

The crowd gasped, held their money tight

as the trashcan almost tipped over, leant westward

then collapsed back into place. It’s silent, the trashcan

and the crowd. Some began to leave. One woman sat

on the stoop next to me and asked if it will ever escape.

“It just wanted the world to know it was inside,” I replied.

[illiteratealiteracy]

9/19/16

Nobody asked if I

wanted this body or this

gender I’m trapped in

[illiteratealiteracy]

194: If My Heart Were a Pigeon

There’s a pigeon in the trashcan, beating

wings against the thick plastic covering.

A man, then a woman with a small mutt, stopped

to listen to claws battling the rubber of trash bags

and watch the lid nearly jolt open.

I came home to the crowd, a gambling ring

taking bets to when the bird might break free.

The neighborhood began to drink beer, local

beers and cheap beers, sit beside me on the stoop.

The crowd gasped, held their money tight

as the trashcan almost tipped over, leant westward

then collapsed back into place. It’s silent, the trashcan

and the crowd. Some began to leave. One woman sat

on the stoop next to me and asked if it will ever escape.

“It just wanted the world to know it was inside,” I replied.

[illiteratealiteracy]

Satisfaction in the Rec Room

Pores raining, headbands soured by salt,

Thighs rippling in mid-drift spandex,

Shoulders swaying like a violin’s bow,

East to west, the tension beautiful

And grotesque - this is table tennis, bitch.

The paddle rises, the force awakens,

The worn green rubber fondles the underside

Of the ball, spinning it on a third axis.

It hops the fence, lands and twists,

Kisses another paddle and blasts on back.

The Cheeto-lipped crowd is silent,

Like a ghost orchestra, their eyes

Like percussions, following the ball

On the one and two, following the conductors

Slamming lyrical grunts to each other.

They’re loves, heartbeats of thunder jazz,

Sharing the bed like violent seamstresses

Pinning, stringing the moment tighter.

They exchange until empty, until fatigue takes,

But it only ends when they’ve both finished.

[illiteratealiteracy]

XXXII

Why would I tell my monsters I am afraid of them,

Or, more accurately, explain to my angel that I am

Not enough - man, lover, functional, happy, all of it.

  The spider once told the fly that he will be waiting

For him, and even though I knew myself too well

To believe I could be right, I fell right into that web.

  I’ve built a tree house on your limbs and it’s been

A fun game, but when I warned you of the coming

Forrest fire, you stayed and here I am burning you.

  I used to find God on the cross around my neck,

But now I only find how I am far from the perfect son

And there’s not enough room for me to be build

  Another tree house in this forest of ashes and

Suffocation. So I will start with a seed, plant myself 

In you and wait by your side for however long it takes.

[illiteratealiteracy]

7/10/15

I am not sure when

my veins turned to wires, and my

bones to stiff iron

[illiteratealiteracy]

193

The same few images plague my mind and my works

As if I am spinning constantly down a cycle - repetition

Of depression feels like being lost in a forgotten maze.

When I was gone so long that this garden of my grace

Has turned to bleaks and blues and music that you just

Can't dance to. I miss dancing, on the back porch; potery

Is somewhere on my shelf, hiding in the dust from my eyes.