my roommate says i'm autistic but i can't tell if he's joking
August 28, 2021
Tag: 2021
last strains of freedom from a car stereo at the stop light, Spanish auto-tune Springsteen, a collaborative anthem to the last fifteen minutes before the parking lot and the time clock and the last shuddering sigh through tired limbs on the darkening street as i stand at attention for an approaching bus, drained and dull as the wheels roll by and leave me behind with the last fading thump of free- dom rising up from the asphalt into worn out rubber soles
August 28, 2021
withering unwooded widowed man hidden hood disrupted by contact poison peeled back banana like Joanna Russ in reverse a male woman in heels and swayed hips and strong cheekbones turned coyly aside stubble waxed laser depilation in the mirror eyes shadowed by ancestral rituals of suffering like bulls pierced through muscle before heart to bleed out onto trampled sand to the roar of a crowd slinging vicarious phalluses eclipsed by phantom womb pain a grotesque parody of the first origin a circus fixed by a knife dangling vocal cords disposing of wombs as medical waste i grew in there! is it toxic? words spilling acid creased electric knees bending into nylons until Susan Faludi backs the lash and hairy knuckles pepper plums fresh across spans of winter white is that what half the population wants? disembodied castrated undermined manhood pivots violated disempowered cow corralled womanhood repulsive human race! all of us animals licking spoiled wounds for the taste
July 13, 2021
rusty nails in the dirt i pluck them out one by one to push rough heels into soft soil and pat them dry there there upright lipstick peeps through snow crust flat against the wind until frost bursts open a path for roots among the rocks and tall stems escape unbending leathery tongues in arcs to count brown under the weight of the sun as earth turns over to yield up whole palm heavy knobs one by one in yellow dust in winding braid in warm kitchen in steel pot in ceramic bowl in curled fingers i split rusty nails to push smooth hooves into soft soil
July 9, 2021
i may only be a nine out of a hundred to the world, but i'm a nine out of nine to me. it may never be enough, but it's everything i have. i won't keep my head down anymore. i won't do half the work of the bullies. i get knocked down, laid low, flattened, but i can still look them in the eyes. i can be afraid, but only of what's in front of me and not of the end- less reel in my head. it's you, you know, who's changed me. my buddy boy. you're worth matching, you who walks that clear stream where i can see all the way to the bottom. when i meet you where you are, i am my best self. that's where i want to be. that's who i want to be. it's never enough for the world. but it's enough for me.
July 7, 2021
we're giving you ten percent. that's a lot. you should be grateful. you need fifty to survive but, well, where's your family? doesn't your mother love you? who claims you? you aren't our responsibility. we're your friends, but ten percent is all we're going to give. the rest is up to you. if you fall through, well, we'll say, what a shame. but we have responsibilities. we have families. we have mothers who love us. you aren't our responsibility. you aren't our family. who do you belong to? we can't give you more. we can't do more. we'll look away. we'll say, what a shame. where did you go? we care, but we won't check in on you, we won't call, we won't text. you're too much for us. don't you have people? don't you have a family that claims you? doesn't your mother love you?
July 2, 2021
i thought it was a mechanical problem. i thought it was my dialog. i was ob- sessed with beats for a while. it never felt right. it never had the right rhythm. maybe i was looking for poetry where there was no poetry, poetry where there was only prose. bad prose. because a life without stories makes for stories without life. i wrote them to keep me company, one dimensional backfill for a four dimensional emptiness. rain on dry soil makes only mud. handprints bake into ridges. i can't read. fossiliz- ed youth under- go- ing geo- logical surveillance. layers melting one into another. i remember this. the sad thing is, i couldn't have done any better. i could trace a line from New York to Pennsylvania but it wouldn't mean any- thing. mud pies from Pennsylvania to North Carolina to New Jersey. two women screech- ing out- side an apartment door. cops shining flashlights into a basement window. and i traded his sentiment for my excuse, but you can't opt out. because it all comes around in the end. he sang in the shower. he said love isn't enough, and you know, he was right. i had a sister once. i don't think i ever had a brother. there was one more, but she told me i was a burden to live with. i had reached the end. i thought about doing it in the woods, but i couldn't give away my cat. i still have the bookmarks on my old phone, accidentally filed under 'things to do.' i could draw a line from New York to Oregon, but there's no line back. i was pulled like a thread through a needle, like water curling down a drain. i re- cognize none of it now. pictures of emptiness. there's a terrain of being unwanted. it carves out the back of your skull. my skull. there's meat clinging to the bone, thin shell of bone. you walk, i walked with that rounded spine, carrying with me vertebra dis- articulated. recombined into the low belly snake sliding under doors, leaving the family undisturbed. milk. white. tooth. less. silent. 'you're a burden to live with' she said. but that was someone else. i held onto the tightrope with both hands. i thought my phone was broken. my first week. she didn't call. some thing broke in me. broke open. broke loose. live wire. i held onto it with both hands. it didn't matter any- more. it didn't matter that i was unstable. i got on the bus. i went to work. i paid my bills. no one cared. no one needed to care. i fell free. snake skin. emptied out pickup truck. industrious camouflage. people make assumptions because they don't care, because they don't have to care. and i slid on by. i could sit on the curb and cry be- cause it didn't matter. the illusion was good enough. it was the confirmation i couldn't face all those years ago, the confirmation that i didn't matter to anyone. i faced it. i don't know how i kept going but i did. and somewhere beyond that, in a landscape with color and light, i felt eyes on me that didn't let me go, that didn't let me fade into the monochrome. i was okay because they were okay. they, all but one, had a background they were woven into but they still saw me. my loose threads didn't matter to them. i belonged. and that one, well. we followed each other's threads, i think. so even when other friendships unravel- ed, faded, cut short, we kept each other. the tranquil reflection became the deep and tranquil pool. that's why none of the rest of it matters. i swapped bad prose for bad poetry. but so what? i'm whole. i laid down all that weight. i rest here. i thought it was a mechanical problem. i thought it was my dialog. i was wrong. it was the difference between having no strength and having no one believe in your strength. my strength. but i'm starting to believe. i can look them in the eyes now.
July 2, 2021
blind fish rooting for a billion dollar food chain telescoped into high- waters and tennis shoes a blind fish rooting snuffle snuff snuff dripping drop drop spider cold meat hands hunched over electric dimes a blind fish gaping serrated lips mooing mouse nosing soft soil compost- ing bubble breath trailing off rising up a blind fish rooting for a million mouths hooking a blind fish rooting raw
June 24, 2021
love them because of who they are, not despite who they are; love them for reminding you that you're vulnerable too; hold them close, make space; let go; open your arms; trust them; treasure them; as much as you can, and when you can't, forgive yourself; try again; because it's not about perfection; it's never been about perfection; it's about commitment; it's about compassion; it's about love. so Love, and be free.
June 18, 2021
light- weight hollow insect shell de void silent waste- land platter scratch reel reel- ing out hum un- attended bare knuckles fish-eyed final door grand window opening onto concrete dumpster magnifying dust pan drip step fading up over out in- to down not for me who's home whose home i never recognize the building i ask are we am i there yet am i have i arrived? i never know if am i home?
June 17, 2021
