They thought I was asleep, but I heard her scream out at that star that may or may not have been a swollen airplane. She called it another place to live. She called it a high wire pause. Or was that me.
I scrubbed my hands better than I have all year, before I plunged them into my body to rip out the mail. His name is ____________ and full of papercuts and improper postage. We are already in love.
How about we stage a protest this year. Eat only syllables and postures. I will continue to challenge the disobedience of my breath and you can remind me that gender is a disco ball better left rotating.
You owe me a letter. But I will wait for your shadowboxing bellow. As I sit here, sore from an early morning bone stretch, no longer calling tomorrow a clean slate. Instead, a movement of magic.
You thought this is where love derives from
You thought this is a sign from planets to validate your existence
You thought this is beautiful
You thought this was a necessary explosion of transported lust
You thought this was a sign of romance and rust of musical movements
This is actually the death of plasma and gravity
This is just an American-made jet fighter
This is a collapse
This is just a calculation of patterns
This is an adventure of sky and planets and you are trespassing
This is actually just a whisper of meteoroid
This is just a British drama with or without laugh track
This is just a novel
This is an airplane full of over-worked travelers and screaming babies and some guy who is flying away from his life down below
This is just a song by Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, Elliot Smith before the stabbing
This is an explosion of heat and third-degree burns and unless you can donate your skin, stop watching
This is just a scratch in the sky
This is strange and innocuous but also toxic and may cause permanent damage
This is just a bully of light
This is just a formation not an evolution
This is just a repeat from yesterday’s indigestion of cloud consumption
This is not beautiful
This is not marvelous or made to help you arrive at a conclusion
This is not love did you think this was love this is never going to be about love
This is not smashing; this is just smashed
This is drunk
This is sky addicted to flash
This is just sky
This is just a light
This was never going to be about wishes or wishing; you can remain down here for that.
I cannot begin to cite all the stars I counted on that night when the air felt more like the endings of autumn than august. Where I should begin is the digestion of home-baked high as I paddled in lung-inflated kayak in illegal waters of new york reservoir. The sun dripped on each shoulder as I felt muscles expand with intentional dig of directional ore. To enter memory and present-tense simultaneously. Stumbled swallows and the ways in which I digest silence as though it is meat: I want more of it; I feel sick from it.
The mayflies, Lidia. The adults may live for only a few days and here they are, flustered and twitching around us. Could we be part of their final hours? They lay their eggs in water and then they sink. Perhaps these stars are the bulbs of light leading the mayflies to the bottom of lakes where their offspring wait. I have no such thing as bathing suit, Lidia. But we do not need to ask permission from this salt stream. Let’s just exist as one of them.
I should mention that I have a difficult time with authority, Lidia. We are given a warning when we trespass through a part of the earth that is still earth and I wonder why deer and cockroaches don’t give us humans these tickets. They were here first. When the police want me to travel inside submission, I grow louder. I flex my underarm hair because that is where the rebellion grows. And I whip out weaponry of red, stained notebook. Got poems shaped as bullets or bullet-shaped-poems. Got mosquito-bitten ankles and I wonder if we were all just given one day to exist, how we’d trample. There’d be no time for fear.
so what else, then…….but to survive on the presence of now.
my blinks are blue and dripping midnight
two trillion time zones just between eye lid and upper lip
molecular pendulum swings proteins & hunger
breaths triggered by a.m. or p.m.
tiny patch of cells like controlled machines
make me yearn for breakfast
blame moon once again for theorizing body
or rhythm of sun staining worry into skin
because it is evening and more of a bully then
those are not freckles but dust from
settling like photographs into my skin
it is 2:21 somewhere
and this somatic mechanism
makes me want to lose track of its duration