I don’t know if I have fans
(Spoiled) d’affaire to speak up
Behold bold imprints
Historical fictions are my thang
These days rosé around the brim
My health care is in limbo
Waning between nonexistent & crucial
My entire being feels like it’s bleeding
Outside a sober song sits linear, haha time
A titled facade of truth whisked away
I try to make plans with everybody
But end up staying home
Maybe it’s the pressure
Maybe it’s the depression
Maybe love is my ultimate truth
I told my therapist I really only care to spend
Most of my time either alone or with my love
I miss my family too
The east coast breathes a big saturated kiss across my face
A sloppy one
With all sorts of cataclysmic bliss
In some ways it’s like I’m my own sworn enemy
A clogged-up rabbit hole for dreamless negotiations
The concept of life as interactions is synonymous with the dread of imperfections surfacing casting light over language
showing its indicators as unacceptable
& perhaps faulty altogether
And maybe it’s this inability to communicate that makes me dissociate, makes me hesitant to hang around friends
Especially in large groups
it can be hard to grasp the firm cuffs of words
Locking us to their meaning & this insecurity is really not a lack of security, but more a vision of contempt & disbelief in our living history, no, I don’t pledge allegiance
(TRUTHS(?)) are at an all-time record high of impermanence
in utterance the shift
leaks a frothy residue
bark batched the tree tight
to its being & skin is our
organ holder, the machine
that keeps the veins internal
Tomorrow I’ll be on the floor
Sitting with a stack of tools
A nub of rug that needs vacuuming
Maybe if I write over and over again
Then I’ll come head-on with the surface
Of language’s demise
It’ll clutch me in its boughs
And pamper me
Showing favoritism for my dark long hair
And freckles
It’ll finally run a fine-tooth comb across my spine
Naming the lumbar, sacrum & coccyx
A bridge, a booth, a bride, a friend of boba, ole, borges
Denise is in the sheets
Tom toddles on about typhoid fever
Deborah cracks a piggy bank & whips out a plume of chocolate ovaries
The shelves let me use it to pull my body up from the floor
Maybe I’ll be a bank full of money in the afterlife, once my neighbor called the cops on me
Protrusion indicates a blow-by-blow set of actions
Its intricate affairs
swatches of old quilts
I have a specific memory of a buttermilk-creamy soft blanket, one side smooth cotton & the other a patchwork quilt, handmade, the white fluffy batting coming out in little clouds from holes created over time
I would stack so many quilts the weight pressing my body to the mattress, its springs popping my rib cage
My parents always said all the beds needed to be replaced their saggy mattresses causing back pains
But for me it was a part of this classic feeling
Before I even thought of sleeping as stiffness
The variety of patches: some floral, some paisley, other plaids each tell little stories I suppose that’s why ppl say when ya fly over the landscape below looks like a patchwork quilt
On a whim I might go online and buy one
But it’ll feel too damn new
I’ll drag it outside
Stomp on it
Take it to the beach & try to make the sand grind away at its fabric
Bring it to prospect park, lather up in sunscreen
Lie across it, dulling its edges
Have a real good cry on it
Pull its corners to my nose & give it a real good blow
Wipe my eyes
Stinging its poignant needlework with my ambitious saline
Repository of sadness & newly bleached jeans grinding into its fabric
I’ll have a real quick-lived orgasm on that one purple-painted dragon tail & splooge a little gloss across its scales
It’ll be rhythmic in origin
Synonymous
With my original story
of course
About woods and language
Words and contusions
(Spoiled) d’affaire to speak up
Behold bold imprints
Historical fictions are my thang
These days rosé around the brim
My health care is in limbo
Waning between nonexistent & crucial
My entire being feels like it’s bleeding
Outside a sober song sits linear, haha time
A titled facade of truth whisked away
I try to make plans with everybody
But end up staying home
Maybe it’s the pressure
Maybe it’s the depression
Maybe love is my ultimate truth
I told my therapist I really only care to spend
Most of my time either alone or with my love
I miss my family too
The east coast breathes a big saturated kiss across my face
A sloppy one
With all sorts of cataclysmic bliss
In some ways it’s like I’m my own sworn enemy
A clogged-up rabbit hole for dreamless negotiations
The concept of life as interactions is synonymous with the dread of imperfections surfacing casting light over language
showing its indicators as unacceptable
& perhaps faulty altogether
And maybe it’s this inability to communicate that makes me dissociate, makes me hesitant to hang around friends
Especially in large groups
it can be hard to grasp the firm cuffs of words
Locking us to their meaning & this insecurity is really not a lack of security, but more a vision of contempt & disbelief in our living history, no, I don’t pledge allegiance
(TRUTHS(?)) are at an all-time record high of impermanence
in utterance the shift
leaks a frothy residue
bark batched the tree tight
to its being & skin is our
organ holder, the machine
that keeps the veins internal
Tomorrow I’ll be on the floor
Sitting with a stack of tools
A nub of rug that needs vacuuming
Maybe if I write over and over again
Then I’ll come head-on with the surface
Of language’s demise
It’ll clutch me in its boughs
And pamper me
Showing favoritism for my dark long hair
And freckles
It’ll finally run a fine-tooth comb across my spine
Naming the lumbar, sacrum & coccyx
A bridge, a booth, a bride, a friend of boba, ole, borges
Denise is in the sheets
Tom toddles on about typhoid fever
Deborah cracks a piggy bank & whips out a plume of chocolate ovaries
The shelves let me use it to pull my body up from the floor
Maybe I’ll be a bank full of money in the afterlife, once my neighbor called the cops on me
Protrusion indicates a blow-by-blow set of actions
Its intricate affairs
swatches of old quilts
I have a specific memory of a buttermilk-creamy soft blanket, one side smooth cotton & the other a patchwork quilt, handmade, the white fluffy batting coming out in little clouds from holes created over time
I would stack so many quilts the weight pressing my body to the mattress, its springs popping my rib cage
My parents always said all the beds needed to be replaced their saggy mattresses causing back pains
But for me it was a part of this classic feeling
Before I even thought of sleeping as stiffness
The variety of patches: some floral, some paisley, other plaids each tell little stories I suppose that’s why ppl say when ya fly over the landscape below looks like a patchwork quilt
On a whim I might go online and buy one
But it’ll feel too damn new
I’ll drag it outside
Stomp on it
Take it to the beach & try to make the sand grind away at its fabric
Bring it to prospect park, lather up in sunscreen
Lie across it, dulling its edges
Have a real good cry on it
Pull its corners to my nose & give it a real good blow
Wipe my eyes
Stinging its poignant needlework with my ambitious saline
Repository of sadness & newly bleached jeans grinding into its fabric
I’ll have a real quick-lived orgasm on that one purple-painted dragon tail & splooge a little gloss across its scales
It’ll be rhythmic in origin
Synonymous
With my original story
of course
About woods and language
Words and contusions