poems by PI

queer poet from Columbus, OH

[portableintelligence-blog]

Change

the tree has leaves the tree does not have leaves the child is small the woman is grown the man loves me the man does not love me he smiles he screams and somewhere, there is time in between

[portableintelligence-blog]

Daylight Savings

Nobody can save the daylight from the looming shadow of our sins.

[portableintelligence-blog]

This

is not a night anyone will remember, sports bra and boxers in the dirty sheets with bits of popcorn mixed in, surrounded by cans of Rhinegeist's Peach Dodo (because it isn't a problem if it's craft beer). This is a Saturday, and it's obvious, isn't it, that watching episode after episode of Bojack Horseman alone will not solve any problem, will not not give me the bravery to dump any shitbag of words onto the floor at open mic night will not create world peace once and for all will not make me slightly a good person and won't even give me the charm to impress my super fucking impressive doctor of a girlfriend who will leave me when she realizes that there's probably an accumulative entire bag of popcorn in my bed especially because it's nothing but kettle corn and she doesn't even like that flavor she really likes the white cheddar a lot more, maybe the real stuff from the movie theater with melted butter on top but never kettle corn, never.

[portableintelligence-blog]

After the Equinox

It's that time of year when the sun's in your eyes but never in your heart.

[portableintelligence-blog]

Just One More

I am a mountain upon the land, massive and unmoving. The rain erodes the rock and turns it into sand. I am the mountain and my bed is the land. Does the mattress become compressed where my ass sits as I hunch over my laptop, searching for something to make me feel less alone? The sheets are covered with the sands of chips, crackers, and popcorn, and above that, piles of laundry that haven’t been disturbed since the dawn of time, a towel, an unfinished pack of minipills, a book about flowers. I’ve finished my first drink, and the bottle of vodka on top of the fridge says, “Why not have one more?” and I suppose, no one is watching, and perhaps no one ever will be, so I take it down, unscrew the top and pour another.

[portableintelligence-blog]

Stop

CW: rape/sexual assault When I was young, very young, I was told to say no. No matter how many times he might ask, might push, and he would, they said, unrelentlessly and unendingly, like the many men before him. You must always say no, for your body belongs to the Lord and to your husband. When I was young, twelve or thirteen, my friend became a scratch on the wall in the bedroom of a seventeen year old’s bedroom. Another told me, with voice shaking, near the middle school gym that she had been raped over and over from infancy to age nine. I was luckier than them. I was told to dress modestly, not to put anything on the menu if it wasn’t for sale. If a boy can see it, he can assume it belongs to him. I was taught that my body was a sandwich shop, a used car, a chewed piece of gum, a piece of tape that’s lost its stick– My body was anything, everything but mine. And when it came to the push, I said no, stop, a couple of times, but I didn’t fight. I wondered, why would I fight for something that isn’t mine?

[portableintelligence-blog]

infinitely different

in a universe with rocks, the mantis and the eel, with vast emptiness and dense gas clouds aflame it’s nice to find someone like you, someone like me, infinitely different and infinitely the same

[portableintelligence-blog]

Your Love Will Never Be Enough

You are simply the most perfect, laughing, lovely, box-ticking sort of absolutism that, according to every bit of realism, can not ever exist. (yet you are) impossibly and wonderfully smooth like rounded bits of sand in my fingers, delectably intriguing, and strangely, inexplicably mine. But you, my absolute darling, your love will never be enough as the rain will never be enough to fill the sea, the sun not hot enough to dry it, the waves not tall enough to reach beyond the shore. In space there are black holes that pull in everything (even planets, even light!) because when a star collapses its darkness is insatiable, its gravity so great that everything-- even your love--will seem small, dark, and will never be enough.

[portableintelligence-blog]

The Dreamers Weep

In the South the kudzu slowly creeps up north to where the pine trees sleep. It tangles its roots down in the deep and covers the trees in a silent sweep. It lives by a farm with many sheep, whose luscious wool the farmer reaps. They don't know the world beyond the street as they give up their coat to earn their keep. Beyond the street a chickadee cheeps it hops around with little leaps. Its nest is made of many leaves and pieces of plastic from a garbage heap. Even the people cannot sleep they have no home beneath their feet. And when they ask me on the street, I say, "I've got no change, you cannot eat." The dreamers weep.

[portableintelligence-blog]

If My Brother Was Black

If my brother was black when he was fourteen and oinked at a cop from his skateboard sneering, would the officer drive him home and shake my mother’s hand to comfort her about her wayward son? If my brother was black when he was pulled over for speeding back from Kentucky after buying marijuana would “just out for a drive” suffice for an answer to the question, “Where were you headed?”? If my brother was black on the night he was higher than heaven itself on the street screaming to the traffic lights, headlights swerving past, would an ambulance have been called, or a police car? Would people see a helpless man or a threat? Would the EMTs strap him to a gurney to protect him from himself or would an officer beat him to the ground as he, frenzied, struggled to understand what was happening, struggled against the pain, against the officer, against arrest, would he be hurt, or killed, and if he was, would every white person call him a thug and say he shouldn’t have resisted, shouldn’t have been blocking traffic, shouldn’t have been high, would they say that playing stupid games wins stupid prizes as if my brother’s mental illness was a game at the sports bar for your entertainment would they piece together his criminal record like it was the winning answer for Tuesday night trivia? would i have gotten a call in the morning from a hospital or a prison? would we pay a medical bill or bail? would I have called my mom and said, don’t worry, he’s okay? would I have picked him up from the hospital and brought him to my apartment while my parents dropped everything and drove into town? would we still, years later, be trying to help him? or would his name be on a list of thugs that should have behaved, should have listened, should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have OBEYED? If my brother was black would I be listening to his voice or to the sound of wind rustling through trees at the rose hill cemetery?

[portableintelligence-blog]

The Wages of Sin is Death

For the four who were arrested on June 18th at the Columbus Stonewall Parade

Ten people marched, pleading, “Have mercy on us, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger into water and cool our tongues, for we are in agony in this fire.” With a white, blinding, light, the police descended upon them with bicycles, mace and handcuffs. (oh yes, that white bright guilt hurts but not like the mace). They shouted as they knocked them to the ground, BACK UP, BE STILL, AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD. Truly, I say to you, I am the Lord, your God, who brought you out of slavery. Follow my commands: Thou shalt not walk in thy neighborhood at night. Thou shalt not reach for thy wallet. Thou shalt not sleep peacefully in thy black grandmother’s home. Thou shalt not attend a party. Thou shalt not sell single cigarettes. Thou shalt not drive with a broken tail light. Thou shalt not make any improper lane change. Thou shalt not exist in a vehicle which may be subject to a routine traffic stop. Thou shalt not exist in a body with dark skin. Thou shalt not exist.

[portableintelligence-blog]

The Trans Panic Defense

After sex, you shirtlessly light a cigarette on the rickety porch. “I just live for the day,” you say. I list the ways it is true. I was once a child, but today I am a woman and you regarded me as such. I was once an egg, and before that, nothing but a possibility, a potential for life, potential for existence. Does it bother you? I was once a mindless bundle of flesh in the womb, and later a bundle of flesh kneeling at the toilet as a bottle of vodka mocked me from the counter. I laid myself down on the road, praying that someone would drive by and no god heard my prayer. Would you panic if you knew? That I pulled myself from the asphalt, bits of street embedded in my skin, and wrote the first chapter of my destiny in an email to the therapist who said, “Each day, you change, and each day you become something closer to who you are today.” Would you kill me if I said? I am not who I was yesterday, or the day before, and I will never be who I am today again. I think you know, (don’t you?) that neither of us have ever been and neither of us will ever be who we are now smoking on the rickety porch under yellow streetlights and a starless sky.