Posts tagged: words that i wrote
Under shroud (and with bodies like towers of shapeless birds,) would you ask me if I had a hand i could pull through time. you tell me which tendered strings i’d have to pull to get a throating. if forgiveness were exemption, you’d have said everyword to get me off. what is this. i can’t even put my mouth around it. my hands on it unwielded and misshapen tried beyond trying to unravel you off a chaise lounge. here we are on a staircase again. touch don’t touch me anywhere. if it was alright this (once upon a) time, open palmed and find myself undid. counting back twenty six twenty five four three two and maybe that’s enough to not press butterflies into the earth. one twenty nine teen eight and not spread and not thin. y eight and fists and a single finch with weight to carry to find my way back to you again.
When I get the chance, I will find the rest of the birthmarks hidden on your scalp. My favorite numbers turned to 101, 134, and 118, and Interstate 5. When you found the ocean floor you spit, spit, spit. Often I want your voice to spill over like this cracked and tilting fountain. I never fell asleep, but woke up in my car, and you tell me you won’t spend the night. I understand. You don’t want to taste the past still on my lips. Now I eat the future three meals a day, and my blood stands still but glows.
And is it only word that bind us? Keep on sleeping on “I do’s,” “little of heart of mine’s,” and “my writhing expletive’s.” We are wed by our language, brought together in our oral consummation. Something in this love gives lie to our skin as boundaries. I and I gives way to us. We give way folding back into our self and the questions left.
"Who are you seeing? What’s in her name? What does it mean? Why have you lied? What do you want? Who else? What else? How many times do you end before someone else begins?"
You mouth the words, don’t go. You mean, please go. Or maybe, don’t go. You haven’t yet decided to mean what you say. And every other year you change your mind. You twist your tongue against your mouth, pretending over what you should have said. Until you’re done going back. Don’t go, you would have said, if you don’t want to.
My tongue is not yet full of your vocabulary. I lick the black and sticking tar off your lungs, this cavity of words. Your poetry is a smoke screen for the indelible shadows cast from the white-hot ember that burns within you. You, a sun with skin. You, a fist down my throat. You, on lips and chin. What nothings could you sweeten to feed me? When with every word, I hunger.
Like torn stockings, up and down her legs were where sticks and stones had hurt her . As if to say, this line you do not cross, and this line you do not cross, and this line you do not cross. And this is the great divide, between godhead, and thin and supple fingers. Between your neck and the sentimental touch of Texas’ hands. You were growing into the stretch marks of the universe. Boundless as if skinless, as if scuffs and scratches were all you were and wanted to be.
And you didn’t think how much you’d miss a cute rear end, when you gave your body to the body of another. Or the beating of a stubborn socked legged into the ground. The other blank and stiff and naked calf anchored as if to another world. Thinking you had tied all sins to all the seams gathered, unseemly and unexcused, the wanting mouth and the caved in chest. You ask as if nothing else, that ass, and something of a shoulder, the question of another “if.” “If” not this then what? Then nothing.
She carries her bones and then what else under that luminous skin? All words and bones and pulsing internal organs, screaming something meek into the far and distant. And she said in all one word and then another, are your wrists and ankles dependent on this clause? Is the cut of your hair the start of haiku poetry? Do your long legs tell me prose? Or all too easy like spitting from your mouth and molars the things you missed? Or something swallowed, the last word or last laugh? All over now. All stretched over. All thinned out.
in this time line we are losing,
in another you are lost, in another
we are walking over roots in the sidewalk,
we are touching cold bottles to your thighs,
in another you have written me a letter,
or we are speaking through a void,
in another we are reading german in airports,
you hold sadness in your hands, in another
you hold my hand, I hold sadness in my hand.
i am singing to you, i am lying to you.
in another your skin is smooth, in another i
have a mouthful of scars, in another i have a
burning bowel you have an anger in you,
you’re a blonde, brunette, redhead. i am
on the bathroom floor you are on the phone.
in another we are trading poetry, Rilke and Windle,
Olds and Bukowski, Wigginton and Morgan. I am old
and you are young, you’ve out grown and I’m
still a goddamned child. You are south, in another
you are north again.
in another you are drawn to me,
in another we sleep and wake, and sleep
and wake, and sleep and wake. in another
there’s a house in the woods, there’s an ocean
not too far, there are clothes on the front porch,
water in the foot prints in the mud, opened books
on the table, There’s a time for me and you
and not another.
your legs are burned with the shadows
of overlapping grass when I fucked
you while afraid with a stomach full
of a doubting thoughtlessness
just last night, i said to you i
have ruined myself for you, but you
still came and laid claim to every
uncovered limb you cling to
over skin, bone, and stretched up scratched up
your breasts are pale under the collar
of your rib cage where you wear a crown
of compassion and a choker collar of thorns
you wake me when I can’t sleep, and
make my idle fingers your own, you ask me
“feel,” and I should have saved myself
for this so all at once you could teach me how
to “feel” your body, your soul, the way it deserves.
there isn’t a saying
for, take my body apart,
and remove the crass mechanism
for betrayal from the
very chambers of my heart,
that closed fist-shaped
say love pours from,
but it’s something else.
will you still gather me in your
skinny open arms like you would
the biting sea, the wild flowers and
bristles, and any other
animal found limping and
bloodied at your heels
as you walk the earth
in your naked body
and its singing, boundless form.
and i apologize
that you found me
in this condition to have
to grind me down like teeth,
to undo where i am
from where i’m from,
and take me into you
like a threaded needle
through your abdominal wall.
i did not know love like yours
existed, or how i would punish
you for it, how i would take
you in in comfort, show you
that the hand that holds is
the hand that smothers the
warm burning of your chest,
love you, but still attempt
to break you in the same
places where I would like
to take myself apart.
Can’t you keep the breath pressed out. Not yours, but the. The joie de vivre. The life worth living. The singular. The all-encompassing. The little death. The early morning. The lull. The break-up. The make-up. The answer. The follow-up question. The leap of faith. The fall of man. The instant. The only time. The only other time. The never. The ever. The rest. The love of your life. The breath you pressed in again.
There’s actually four parts. So the one you mentioned should be IV and not III. The fist two are from part of a collection I wrote when I was just starting to write. The third is part of another collection that was sort of reflection on the first collection. And then IV was written separately.
The Road to Houston i
this road to Houston
The Road to Houston ii
Bukowski is out
of the floorboard
and we’re on our way back home
the soft light
and the cool air
makes this night
the night it has to be
is back in the floorboard
and in the dark
the light contrast
shines on my knee.
into the incoming traffic
We talk about
Salinger and Dostoevsky
Bradbury and Orwell
things like that
with my dad
as we pull up to the house
I sit there
and ask him
about my future.
I hug him and head in
call a girl I know
that I missed today.
The Road to Houston iii
Not too long this time,
before i see the bridge.
that reminds me that
I’m close to different places.
The city rises
and the proud refineries stand
towered over the outdated
The road grows
Thanks for asking!
and this is birth from tragedy, not
the birth of tragedy, not farce,
if you like it unexaggerated, then by
any means and by many means
pull myself together
like twine strained between your fingers,
and you mention how my soul quivers
how my numb limbs swinging
at your waistside no longer
make you feel drawn to me,
but still, it’s love but still,
and still an apology, and why
would that make it better, if it
won’t make me better, as
you are a Tree of Life,
and I know good, and I know evil,
but I am an upright shallow grave
with a winter seed where
my heart should be beaten,
fingers trawling through your
intricate branches, afraid
to be so close to this
compassion. when I have
turned away at every chance
of your embrace
and I don’t know what this
all means, and by all means
it means so much more than
I’ve considered. my vague
sense of unease misplaced
by your direction.