circular lightening bug of the sky.

This has always been here. I can call it something else, but it still subsists, scraping up the constellations of marked-up atmosphere. Everyone pushes and shoves their way forward in order to get a better view of it. Here. How about I take heated magnifying glass, pummel it into my neckbone and search out a song apropos of all this. How about nothing. How about you decide why it is so bothersome that some humans feel the need to wear secrets over scarves or sweaters and when memories are questioned, no witnesses are left with fully intact brains. What haven’t you got. Rather, what is it you still need. Get us a chisel over here. A surgeon without warning. We need a gas mask. We need a boat because the earth is trying to flood us out. Gather up your D batteries; quickly research the lineage of your middle name and the genetics of your toes; you may not have run over that child in your youth, but you were racing; seek out the name of that eidolon. This never went away. It seems to be getting bigger. Can you even pronounce it without grieving your teeth away. You may be one of those (now).

consumption of the personal

photograph by performance artist Tracey Emin

Here is what I’ve done.
There is a ring. There is a sliced-out scream from forearm. There is a love letter. There are many love letters. There is a collection of bodies stained inside my underwear. There is a preference to live out loud on computer screen rather than in imagined silence of mind. There are sexual perversions hidden beneath bed. There is a collection of condoms in bathroom, bedroom, backpack, and back pockets of pants. There is a memorized poem about sofrito, chapstick and razorblades. There is a woman. There are many women. There is a man. There are disposed hairs growing inside knots. There is drug addiction. There is food addiction. There is sex addiction. There is an addiction to addiction. There is some gender stuff. There is an experimental approach to genitals and orgasms. There is a stolen memory, stuffed inside a sock drawer. There is an envelope of money. There is an unclassified stain. There are many stains. There is a revision of memories. There is a pile of notebooks. There are maps of directional patterns on tiny pieces of paper in pockets. There is a tambourine. There is a mix tape. There are many mix tapes. There is a passport. There is a phone number for a man that is no longer alive. There is a Fidgeon. There is an orchestra of padded bras, stockings, and false eyelashes identity. There is a purple vibrator. There is a history of mental illness. There is a pattern of lactose intolerance connected to lovers. There are lovers. There are many lovers. There is a soul mate. There is an un-mated soul. There is a remixed version of childhood. There is a pause. There is a hole. There are many holes. There is this life uprooted from poems and whispered assumptions and how about we workshop the time I lost my mind. Tell me I use too many semi-colons; tell me my imagery is too abstract and distracting; tell me I need to have a beginning middle and end…when I don’t even know how to exist chronologically?