in every poem i am always trying

to describe a complex (simple?) feeling that is located

deep, inside the center of my chest

it tends to feel empty, dark, abysmal, open, wound-like

it comes to point somewhere infinitely inside to a place

that i haven't been to

(ever 

not ever

not ever

maybe before

but not ever)

at the same time

it's a place of death and smells like dreaming

sticky

walls

that squeeze and stretch the spot out farther. inward.

and you think this, the unknown cell-covering you go to when

you have forgotten to pay attention

that "other place"

and you aren't noticing the present moment

in time

we danced

once

and you threw me in the air so that

my feet knocked out the light

and that's all you remember of me

kind of place

that's almost nothing

and almost who you really are

vacant silhouette of your own memory of yourself self

and it squeezes 

it squeeeeeeezes

tightens

like a

hemorrhoid

but inwards

pulls

that black-hole spot

through the center of my chest

squeezing and tightening my soul out the back

(the inwards backwards that never exits)

i thought we were all born with one

the thing that disappears you

and you

the thing that fights against becoming disappeared

a body

and the hair that grows that is not your self

and the nails that grow that are not your self

and the body you grow is not

your

self

or,      i might've just been disappeared

clear.

[motion of getting the charge ready in the air]

CLEAR!

<3

terrific

 everything is terrible

everything is terra 

everything is tetra tierra

everything is terrifying

terror defying

everything is uncomfortable

i don't want to be your friend anymore

go away

go away to your hole

go put your lace nightgown on

stuff your milk holes

there is this cage of bones

specifically this rib cage

it covers how badly I breathe

and how stuffed my lungs are

and how broken my heart is

could be all half-palestinians are born with a broken heart

one half for the pain of your mother's land and your grandmother's hands 

(embroidering)

one half for the pain of not belonging anywhere even within your family

it is all terrible and terrifying and terrific

and we will never know each other again

because I wanted your company too badly

any way it could be wrapped

i wanted it

not to be soft and light filled

not hard and dark and musty

just you

but you were afraid of me

so 

i hid my big monster eyes

hot pocket cold pocket

 all the lines in my fingers quiver

weave bend, none straight

a gentle shiver woven fibers

skin cell dust

curving my branches

my fragile fingers

to hold

the reflection of my face

a sphere of light, in my palm

a broken egg on hot concrete

a warm pocket to place my fingers into, in that unbearable cold freezing terrible winter east coast air

longing for evergreen and soft dirt and winter never feeling like it started or ended

and burying strange herbs and bones in the backyard under a full moon

finding chicken's blood on my forehead

and only ever being known for 

being known for

being known

being not known

wrapped up 

like a piece of gum

and maybe i held the bird / the face / the sun in my palm too tightly

or maybe i'm a monster

is it easier easier easier

make a glob in your cheek and hold it there forever

kinda easy living

like a pebble in your shoe, you see it and re-glue it back to the inside

so it grinds into the previous wound and re-dents it 

so you can complain

and lose hope

and lose fibers of yourself

they just fall off

like dead skin

like all my past relationships

what a terrible future

walking around with no flesh

just an animatronic human cage of bones and wires

what a terrible dream bone cage

what a terrible world full of terrible people

every one is terrible

and they still have their fibers

i don't know if I like anyone

like, the air is too salty

and my fingers quiver too much

and my eyes hurt from seeing

Oro / gold stuck in my throat

Oro / gold stuck in my throat 

she ate and left no crumbs

is a new metaphor for the

oro-boros

burro

burros

a pierna suelta

there could be a heart and a loose leg

no brain activity

maybe it is in the other world where

you and i live

under covers and layers of lace so think 

thousands of fine silks between my heart and yours 

the clouds thicken and clothes up my throat

asthma

my best friend

a good friend who

will run you to death

will hide yer inhaler

will get you

to eat raw onions

steal 'em from your friend's fridge

a symbol of true friendship

is

waking up in the middle of the night to give your dying non-breathing-well friend a clove

of raw garlic

only to find 

she is a cage of her flesh and bones and breath and blood

and empty inside

years pass and she is no longer shaking

the way a tree is no longer alive

and from afar looks whole

and only one little itch a scratch she can't reach

and it all falls down

now broken pieces of the aforementioned shell life

but what a life she led! little shell of a person!

little wolf in sheep's mink fur coat

and silk heels

and gemstone clips

a necklace everytime she squaks

a shiny piece of leather

a sheep's collar

and inside but did you know

layers and layers of fluffy cotton, gauze, lace, silk

in-between her voice and the air

what you heard that sounded like speaking 

was only her 

wheezing

seven sunrises later

 it hurt so much

stone stomach

critical hit

critical mass

nothing but an empty space in the driftwood

framing a texture of waves

and a memory of a summer

that was spent lonely

driving 

flea market

estate sale

before you

worked

and before you

had 38 hours of part-time work

and a fire pit you bought for $5

and that one successful turn

after watching the colour of pomengranates

you had hope

it lasted for 5 years

and faded like a polaroid left in the sun

free write

Alive and Waiting   There was a boy i once loved named Abe Hmiel. He taught me about R. Buckminster Fuller's book to the Children of Earth. His own girlfriend once thought him and me must be the original man and woman. On a swing set, past midnight, by the grandfather and grandmother tree, on the playground, by his house, where we would play in the middle of the night in our early twenties- Then Abe grew up and he became a nano-scientist and he studied, for a few years, the hardness of things. He studied the hardness of diamonds. He told me something I will never forget. That, in order to study the hardness of something, you MUST observe and measure the bouncy-ness of that thing, and that value would lead you to a way of describing its hardness. hardness the absence of bouncy-ness, bouncy-ness the abscence of hardness, but in reality everything has both. I am waiting I am waiting I am waiting for the bouncy-ness of whatever material my life is made up of, to resurface. become less hard.  There is silence and scratching a heart pounding under the ground for these earth faeries/earth angels bring our dream out of blood-root rot Rot is not pretty. But rot is gentle. ly fer ment ing and we do have to wait, a long time but if we wait too long it will eat all its sugar and die and apparently this growth has to be living

human

 three or five swords

three or five hands

five fingers

Fire wasn't good

 1.

Studio studio studio

2.

Jesus Jesus Jesus

3. 

Remember Remember Remember

4. 

Where is the cheese? Did you leave it in your fanny pack? Was it Munster? Was it smoked American?

5.

Is there a statistic for how much suffering is happening today?

6.

Where is my Dad? Is he still a ghost?

7.

De-acceleration. 

You fools every time you slow down or EVen turn! you deaccelerate, but it can be momentarily. Would you want your deacceleration constant? NO. Would you want to be stuck to a motion? No. What about acceleration how come acceleration is not good enough anymore... (kicks the dust and walks away, seen wearing T shirt that says, "Fire wasn't GOOD enough for LIFE."

triptych triple therapist

 The “harmful” therapist:

She meticulously tie-dyes scarves and wears glass beads in her hair positioning herself as “down to earth” and never allows the client to be late, even when they are working class and even when they are sick. She is strict and numb to the human response to the human emotions of her client. Or she sits with her legs perfectly crossed, never blinking. She swears like a sailor even when her client is morally conservative. She talks about her life, her pets, and her favorite movie, and talks more than her client. Her client is afraid to speak. She bawks at them, “You should really try XYZ!” Gleefully she expels information only she knows, “The neural network composed of ganglion, dendrite, and the gap through which different channels, different salty ions create a polarization that attracts the electric signal from one side to the other…” “See it all makes sense!” “You’re simply a robot. A mixture of predictable behaviors based on your environment.” She takes the hand of her client and presses it to her own heart, “Feel that beat.” She reminds you that she is this well of knowledge and the client disappears in comparison. 

The “ideal” therapist:

the "good enough"

TODAY sucks

 Today sucks like so many other days because today is another day my emotions are not allowed to be here. But they are here, They're being quiet, It's what they want.

They can yell, kill, cutt off, be angry, be passionate, be loud, tall, big, wide, forceful.

They can do anything but you.

You are small and forgetful.

They won't let you forget it.

They won't let you forget that they are "normal".  They are what you should be.

i hate them and I love my emotions.