Exploratory Writing #1

To write to see what you find
To write mostly for yourself
I will sift through later with
a star speckled sieve
but for now let me be bloody and nonsensical
let me guide myself through internal passages
process the madness
telling me it’s not worth it to stick around
you suggest I write sober
about the need to write drunk
but sometimes the soberness
just leaves a lack of will
any desire at all
and the alcohol reminds me of the scents
the senses
the sensual world
that constellations are thoughts unsifted
pushing off the orthodoxy of astronomy
refusing to perform for humans
I like this nonsense
I like the defiance
the brattiness
the noncompliance to be named
I am dead and exploding light
You will only see me after I’m gone
And I want to write about too much
I don’t know how to apply scale
Everything is life/death/rebirth
all the time
all at once
I have to be careful or I’ll blow my ears out
I’ll blow my mind out
I’ll out myself
I’ll out myself
I’m out myself
I’m myself
And what do I do with that?


Slippery Fish

Everything seems terrible because it is
Similarly, everything seems beautiful
Because it is

We hold paradox as a lifeline
A bouquet without a fridge
A bitter barter against suffering
Between cracks, stars
Between stars, the vacuum of space
And the place I absorb malice
That I can’t respond to

I said I’m so angry we were all abandoned by the world
You said you sure hide it well
But you’ve never seen my intestines eating my stomach
And you’ve never seen cutlery chewing on my thighs
Just the way I spin metal to make chain
And the songs I sing to Chiron

If you pan out far enough
Anything can look perfect
Dig your fists into your eyes
Let the stars blur
And let that speak to the idea that
I am kind of a miracle and so are you
That you can be grateful and bitter at the same time
That you can be an orphan while a parent is still alive

All of the angry angles where these truths intersect
Leave soil heavy
Pushing out roots

At night I listen to the frogs in the field
And plead
Please don’t let me become my father
I want to know how to hold fear
When it is so tangled in other people
I want to know how to hold people
When they are so bound to fear

Indifference is the invention of sorrow
Or was that hope?
Is my armor a casket
A boat
Or both?

In the dark
I can’t see my hand in front of my face
But I can sense my cursive veins
Writing anthologies of reception