Godspeed, sister, may the
constant God bless you and keep you
I always imagined Him like snow of perpetual melt, cuddling into the
corners of everything, soaking the dusts you’d
least expect Him to.
Godspeed, sister—I’m in no position to give advice, but maybe
I can offer lift. Continue reading
It’s okay to cry: no
He tilted his skinny skates at 4pm: yes
(I sped glibly, it was thrumming slick-black except)
Do you remember, it’s been a month: no
It’s been 64 days and (I’m) counting until it’s my turn
(the gold flashing,)
glare at me paleface heave on that inky MASCara in wildlike jags burn it into your muscle and hair I swear it will help clutch me scream me wet my shoulder eyes
GOD I MISS HIM. Continue reading
[inspired by a sermon and the word]
Morning mist—love like a morning mist, a phrase that means itself, meaning it sounds beautiful at first but its allure evaporates with the first touch of sun. One wayward breath was all that
shreds of water hovering and tangling
above our hot heads, gone,
a peck of wind or wear, that was all! Love like a mourning fog. Grieving for your fickleness and what COULD HAVE WOULD HAVE SHOULD HAVE BEEN you know, ah… they say that bright light crashes into trillions of glittering shards upon these mist-particle knives, and
you know this white roaring in the eyes. One breathe,
two: sing it, three: you’re going to miss it when it’s GONE like the sun that grabbed your eardrums and it was too hard, too loud, too GARLICKY to love and blink! Just like that
I’m gone, gone! like the dew winking on lush grasses,
sparkly dew that isn’t sparkly or dew or physical any longer, that’s now just another little
scrap of H2O, in just another little
nook of the air.
Surrender is a choice, I like to think
made in dusky rooms, with outstretched palms and crowded sweaty limbs.
Give it up.
I want to know, you, more.
I wonder if the ultimate denial of the self is handing it away, wrapped crisply, if only it were that easy. Which the purest of goals is freeing of want and jurisdiction
how then does the marionette feel: despair, or the freedom of constraint?
Raw knees, a sticky-pus epidermis, stinging with scraggles of red. Raw soul,
a different sort of corporal pain—a post-unbolt numbness, some hot fickleness still in trusting like a blind man.
Little things like the second law of thermodynamics—
The Entropy of a system increases over time, Ms. D declared, her
chest burnt and rusting off in gamma-radiated flakes.
I craved the world for her, a world which keeps on spinning
through every death and not hers.
Flying is a power achieved in certain heavily sedated states,
I like to think. Those forces which accelerate disorder
multiply through the beatings of blackbird wings and tumultings of
inky motorcycles along their neon-night highways, like a dream
things go wrong and things move. In their blithe neverendingness, things don’t stop,
I guess. Thunk, an apple. How to calculate velocity,
how to calculate velocity.
There are the ragged faces of those who are bitter about it, shoving through your eyes in search of weakness—
there are those who are so ravaged by it that they are nearly still to all emotion—
and there is the plaintive face of the girl, no older than twenty, wrapped in a thin white blanket.
Padding in dreamlike motion across, across at the metro station. Continue reading