Capturing Myth, Introspect

Europa

Listen.

Listen, listen,
listen.

I have nothing to say
to turned ears,
empty-filled with not-me.

I am all steam,
hot spring and mud in a limestone cave.

But
beneath the vapour there is clay,
and behind the clay
is cold that rushes through.

A terrified prayer
is whispered to a hole in the wall:

CATCH ME
I AM TIRED OF IMMORTALITY

 It’s the prayer of Dawn and her grasshopper,
the prayer of the Sky pressing to his consort Earth,
the prayer of boar tusks through your lover’s back.

I am hungry
for gold coins
or for swimming with swans,
the scent of flower garlands
tied to a white bull’s neck
still clinging to my hands.

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Introspect

Hives

Here is anger, and it comes in a whisper,
lost in a white night,
blind with the agony of absence
as it brushes against the burrs and brambles,
rushing.

This is speech:
bared teeth beneath the veil,
daggers smiling when silence
is questioned. But then
there is always speech,
and ears pricking.
There are always observations
littering the pages of a low-commitment journal.

The memory is cleaner,
and better, caught in a wasteland
with tempests that were raised in
fury and then forgotten,
dandelion seeds stubborn
in their fright,
sticking to the corners of the earth.

That is where the honey’s hiding.
Post-destruction,
it is found, cool-calm collected,
new-smoked, just-ripened,
a sweet that bites
just as you bite it.

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Introspect

Woolgathering

tell me
how you’ve fallen. quickly?
like a skein into the loom,
or a feather on the foam-tipped crest.

you:
you thread all your letters with remorse,
watched for a century
and forever, and still wonder who saw.

there’s a lie
that hides in the windmills,
on the turquoise,
the woolly sheep in shelled grass,
breathy clouds in the daydream.

but you know this,
tasting the sun for melt to moon,
because the softness of your careful words
is too frail for daylight.

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Introspect, Weaponized

6.11.2016

There is a pain in my ribcage
that hasn’t gone away in weeks.
Breathing is impossible
unless
I conquer something warm
to my side.

The Photuris firefly mimics the mating lights of nonviolent females
in order to lure males to the ground
before eating them.

I wonder if animals with teeth
pity the things they kill
as much as they want blood. I
wonder if it is O K to be
disappointed in a meal
that bled too easy.

They do not know
what I want
because I sit on the emptiness
and grow out evils in my hair
and they can’t touch me. You
can’t touch me,
sad man, lonely boy,
you don’t know if you want to talk to me
or fuck me,
so you watch me.

I wonder if I should see
a doctor about the stabbing pains
in my lungs.

Watching usually isn’t enough.
They always try to hold you
like you want the same things they do,
desperately, pathetically.
But you’re soft-hearted and
you don’t mind being held
if it gets you closer to blood
at the end of the day.

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Portraits

4.11.2016

Gasoline, gasoline, gasoline
on the sidewalks and in the
air five stories up. Five tales.
A mother is in the kitchen
pressing beets by a window;
the juices run down her wrists,
drop in bright puddles
on the floor.
A few years ago
when the linoleum wasn’t as yellow
she might have pressed
a palm to the window,
flesh distended on the glass,
she would have changed
her dress twice a day,
fluttered –
it is 4:44 when
she raises her hand
in yesterday’s shirt,
in matted hair. But she
lifts her hollow wrists
to her mouth,
and licks away the stain
with all the slow purpose
of a hunter,
sucking the poison out,
spitting
or swallowing.

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Retrospect

3.11.2016

In second grade,
I learned that every person was once swirling matter
in the belly of a star
and that horrified me,
because at night my father would take me on walks
and I would crane my head up and look at the stars
over the field by our flat.
“There are two stars here,” and point,
crush my cheek to his so I could see.
I hurt my neck by straining it for hours
so I could pick apart two flames
burning years and years
into the darkness.
So everyone comes from
these hot stomachs,
but I didn’t want to believe
that the boy who tore up butterflies and stuck his scale-covered fingers in his nose
was made of the same things that the sun was,
and I did not want to believe
that there was no light on either end
but for the brightness
far away,
past the glow of Dad’s smile.
Loneliness still scares me: I think I am happier
as the dying remnant of some starry bile
than I would be as Sirius, as Betelgeuse,
as Alpha Centauri.

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Capturing Myth

Katabasis

Q: Has the darkness
ever touched you?

A: Mine caresses. And I
melt, through the soil,
a breath under the oak tree,
just a mouth on the wrists
like a dagger
as the flowers fall.

Q: Has the sadness
ever kissed you?

A: Mine devours. And I
give mind and soul and
anchor, blood throbbing:
war drums and rituals,
epic poems
and sacrifices.

Q: Has the hatred
ever loved you?

A: Mine is worshipped. And the
incense is like sweetness;
I tell myself it’s of blueberry
but it is sweeter, and sourer,
like fallen leaves
or pomegranates.

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Capturing Myth

1.11.2016

There is a day
summer calls like
a nightingale:
the aching colour
of nostalgia in the sky,
a cluster of blueberries
hanging lonely on the bush,
sweet fat for the tongue.

This is the day I remember,
searching for valley flowers:
daffodil,
hyacinth,
baby’s breath,
hunting down the loveliness
or crushing it
beneath my feet,
so the scent of beauty
was thrown into the breeze.

And I remember perfume
of a thousand petals
waft towards me,
the threat of dying
edging the air with rot,
mother’s milk bitter.
I smelled death
when the heaviness cut through
my limbs,
butter-soft.

And summer lost her hold on me,
growing paler and brittler
than straw,
and my hair went copper-red
to iron-grey
to silver-white
when she swallowed me whole.

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Introspect

Crown Cinquain

I want, hiss,
and think about
the girls out there with fragile hipbones,
sexuality escaping
through the lips.

you don’t know, whisper,
but the wasted fascinations
press down like child fingers,
elastic,
and heavy heads.

more, moan,
how brutal the loneliness
while the collision
jars each bone
only slightly out of place.

Oh,
you are hurting me,
sob,
wondering if the creamy
underbelly is soft and
cold to touch.

look at me, shudder,
I watch myself
watching me, darkness out the window.
It took hours to disarrange
the stars.

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