.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
a brief love poemyou are everything-the lilt in the voiceof the songbird,the pillow beneath my head.you are the nightsi can't sleepand when dawn comesi still smile.
to Lot's wifedo not ever apologize for being anythingbut what you are: humanall of us beautiful tragedies, nameless beastswho would love only so much as to see throughour own destructionand what god would be foolish enough to think you to be any different?a pillar of diamonds dancing in the blazing plains,dying to leave a mark
SehnsuchtOctober again;and the curtains billowwith broken glass echoes andMendelssohn's bride waltzingto better times(einzweidrei)She becomes the rain,and breaks her own heart as the sounddripsright through us.
to be a writerjump into the world headfirstcrack open your skull on the oceansink like a forgotten shipwreck in the belly of a herman whalecome up for airstumble across the words of the story-- tell it againlie to a loved one, a stranger, both of themget away with it in a stolen limousinewrite lists that you will never completehang them like goodbyes from anywhere they will stickfall in love like a wrecking ball, destroy a whole city (pretend to)have your ernest heart ridden with bulletholes, alone on a timber hillsidefind god, realize he is just as lost as the rest of usgive him a kurt laugh and look elsewheregrow an ego with hooves & horns & three eyeballsfeed it four times a day, sacrifice your childrencut yourself open and bleed, intestine and sentiment in sulfuric puddlesif not by your own hand, find someone who will do it for youdo not clean it upcreate storybook characters, or at least a story for them to be incompare everything to the biblepick your teeth with similesclo
This is how much a body weighsThis is how much a body weighs. Measure in space allowed, not volume. There, in the culmination of an I—it does not exist. Within the idiosyncrasies of a gender, the I is stripped of its identity, and the space it occupies becomes constricting. Let me say: I am not a mutually exclusive being. The weight of my breasts is small only when I’m alone. Shifting fragments, a tectonic wholeness. The curve of a body lying in bed. My tongue arching as I mouth words to the silent dark. Here, in the balance between my teeth, the I is formed. It does not cling fixedly to any body. A weightlessness, perhaps,too heavy for this world.
.she wants to taste the moonbetween forefinger and thumb sheplucks it from the sky, and likesome great pearly gobstopperrolls it over her tongue,licks the dust from herlips,shuts her eyesand smiles