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Poem #122 (Dream Interpretation)

[I heard once that one way to interpret your dreams is to imagine that everything you dream about is you. This was, in its original form, a very, very old poem of mine]

#poem #poetry #writing #dream #dream interpretation #suicide

Poem #121 (Lowlife)

#poem #poetry #writing #lowlife #painkillers #drugs

Sweathead

#selfie #workout #sweaty #gross

Had to take a selfie of myself for something today, so BAM: selfies

Also hi there enormous chesty birthmark, you got some color this summer.

#selfie #blonde #birthmark #rootsfordays

Poem # 120 (Island) [revised]

#island #hamptons #poetry #poem #spilled poetry #spilled ink

Poem #119 (The Heiress)

#poem #poetry #writing #comets #heiress #landmine #spilled ink #spilled poetry #words

Poem #118 (Rest Stop) [rough]

#poem #poetry #writing #spilled ink #spilled poetry #words #rest stop #roadtrip #cigarettes

Poem #117 (Untitled) [rough rough rough]

#poem #poetry #writing #hamptons #beachlife #missing #spilled poetry #spilled ink

Poem #116 (Manmade) [super rough/actual nonsense]

the formation of a dashboard is exclusively skull-driven

blueprints of convertibles will now accommodate disfigurement

we told the car it was excellent, so our lives aren’t sacred

we give possessions ulterior motives and get sick with it

at pileups, siren beams distribute even light among the bodies

the hit man interstate won’t even take our money

one dead child is the same weight as a cashbox

at closing hour, a cashbox sounds ballistic when it shuts

the road is a hungry tongue under an ambulance

its sense of control was unearthed in expansion

we tell the streets to carry; some dismember

electricity is a gift, and so is a coal fire

post-flame, cars and tall buildings loom as skeletal

we can’t think past the body’s suffered miracle

but we name these things unnatural for comfort

bite nails over what broke when we made plastic cups

the public schools and landfills are all posted ‘FULL’

far off, bald eagles commit armed robbery over the gulf

#poem #poetry #writing #spilled ink #spilled poetry #nonsense #cars #manmade

Poem #115 (Give Up) [short/rough/dumb]

A dead butterfly starts fluttering. It’s sickening. It’s sick. Wing dust accustomed to accumulating jets off into sun. This Lent my mother gave up restitution, my father gave up sugar and I gave up death. Something huge gave me up, but forever. I left it happy, fell out of its head. Torn-out weeds come back alive, but flower. My mother forgets how she even got here. My father says, hunched over in the kitchen, ou give up one thing, lose what you were keeping. Everything he teaches is a lesson long- departed or already known. He parts his jaw in ecstasy and one hot tooth drops heavy from the hole.

#poem #poetry #writing #spilled ink #spilled poetry #lent

Poem #114 (Afterlanguage)

In aftermath, the brave and strict are daredevils;

spine first into dirt, they’ve already named their fate.

Only the dumb dreamer experiences his ordeal as absorbable,

even though it’s all falling off him, all around—

the literal water and also the words to describe

how he drowned. To explicate, make clear,

is the greatest thing and held away from truth.

The truth knows that the truth’s too much, and who

is around to figure it out anyway—and where.

Behold the handsaw, a clear-cut horror

that clear-cuts where the horror goes.

I’ve pulled all the leaves from the trees.

Someone held a rake out to me, said: Clean up,

and I’ve earned degrees in finding the easiest way.

Pick a gunrunner for the miserable charity of your choice

because real mercy is all about death

and has more to do with timing than anything else.

The metal pin is stoic, not confused like breath

wandering around with a headache, brandishing, threatening.

Cinder betrays the truth: there once was flame,

so let the smoldering begin, indignant and alive,

spelling out how there was never once a fire in this world.

#poem #poetry #writing #spilled ink #after language #afterlife #language #death

Poem #113 (Double Door)

The dual entrance is excessive

until a party is thrown.

There is a reason for limousines

but we get it confused

with the reason for bees—

honey and a colony example.

Honey is in the back seat,

passed out. The limousine is

archetypal, like the pharaoh,

says the host. I am the host

and I always have to be

talking. Outside of my body,

words are not captivating.

They take captive—predatory.

Maybe it’s this new, fearless

water we’ve been drinking.

It comes in bottles designed

to protect against audio.

A new synesthesia fad is going

around. Our collarbones

are musical notes, etc.

We can’t question each other

about it and not ask too big

of a question. It’s how

you can get away with

anything these days.

Never learn to get rid.

There was a time we existed

like capsules of medicine

taking effect. We burned

the throat of the earth

and it cringed. After that

we got to work designing

sexy midriffs. So ecstatically

useless. There’s a massive

sickness that we miss. And just

tonight I’ve seen nine sets

of tits as girls reached up to touch

dark watermelon heads.

The balcony spits its judgment

down at us. I go out for a smoke

to believe myself corrosive.

#poem #poetry #writing #spilled ink #party #limousine #double door

Smokeysmoke

#smoking #gif #cigarette #selfie

Eyedance

#gif #cross eyed #selfie

Poem #112 (Party Animal)

The last girl to arrive at the party admits: ‘I wasn’t prepared for this.’

But she has the best lip-gloss. She’s lying.

The boys have covered each wall and the ceiling with mirrors.

Most of them are hand mirrors, circular and tiny;

each body is many and then also part of another.

We drink whiskey from wine glasses, beer from the planters.

A plastered blonde gurgles: ‘I sing from the gutter,’

and everyone laughs at her mouth blowing bubbles

and blowing them up loud and over and over.

All of us girls have bubblegum now and it tastes like perfume.

A showerhead’s lowered down steadily into the room.

It doesn’t turn on; it’s more bubbles but now raining soap.

Boys shrug: ‘Don’t look at us—the animal’s running the show.’

The mirrors are so the dumb creature can see us completely

with every black eye and it looks wild with many,

each orb moving smear-like so that our maneuvers seem perfect.

We feel drunk and televised, which is good for us.

‘The circumference of a mouth is just champagne,’

a prostrate girl offers, socked feet on the mirrors making steam.

Over her we laugh at how each year this feels the same

but it doesn’t. We wish it would stop changing.

‘I wouldn’t bet on that horse’ a few people say to the room.

A girl bent low beside her whispers: ‘I wouldn’t stand up if I were you.’

#poem #poetry #writing #spilled ink #party #technology #party animal #drunk

Poem #111 (The Imaginary is Airtight)

The groaner and her pillbox are

grotesque, until she turns her tilt-

o-whirl hips toward enterprise.

She uses her erotics as amnesiac.

Everyone tried to warn you about it,

but in the history of exorcisms

we’ve never managed to eradicate

the existent. As in, her eyes are

real like hacksaws, that kind

of real. Eyebrows drawn in

western landscape. How tired

you are these days. She is over you

and now. You are inside of her

but not. After payment, her body

turns planetary and so you turn

to dust, not so much inside of her

as now a part. Her being creates

your glimmering. You are no

accomplice in the act. You are

chalk on some sidewalk and she

is the sun. A million miles above

her head, casual sails ride solar wind

in a similar way to your leaving:

steady as a rail until the lights go out.

#poem #poetry #writing #sex work #spilled ink

Poem #110 (The New World)

#poem #poetry #writing #spilled ink #spilled poetry #the new world #bombs

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