I was in a shell boat,
in one transient wave of ooze;
the ooze of spinal fluids, hands, feet and fingers of
my brothers and sisters and
their brothers and sisters.
I had a slotted spoon for an oar,
a lifejacket
and my ship,
my Nina, Pinta, or Santa Maria
dumped me in the pool,
the pool of my family.
I front-floated to shore,
o the end of my driveway, my
family home on garbage night and
I cried for the mothers and fathers of my
brothers and sisters who floated in the street,
no one to write a eulogy but me.
Shorthand
Two Years
I can hear the black flies, the campfire, the light. At the chapel— the one with the green roof— my grandfather’s name is fading At night inside, the moths trapped inside the walls are dead and the book where I read: The men who moil for gold is misplaced. I can feel it every day I miss it. Come home, come home.
When I’m Lonely
close the curtains over the moon, it’s time to go to sleep buenasera my beloved. and once you are gone, I’ll draw back the hallowed curtains, the moon reflecting my face, and I will kiss the window pane and whisper, ‘vanity is a virtue.’ and I will bathe myself in heathen light and I will blow pink spheres over my bared body delight in the only forever left when the sun shines, my darling, we’ll do dancing selflessly together and I’ll be in Puerto Rico with the officer of my dreams. but when the sun tumbles quickly down I’ll leave you swallow the moon samba with the stars when I’m lonely, I feel forever rebound against the fractures of my hands.
Forever
Forever unhappy Forever alone Forever in pain Forever a stone Forever a lie Forever I cry Forever I stay hidden inside Forever decaying, no heart remaining Forever ashamed, no one to blame Forever more, a closed door Forever is not something I want to live for.
High Horse
Combing the smooth, snow white tail of a tall albino pony A figure of chastity I look into its eyes and struggle with my addictions. It feels good when it’s tracking my veins And running right through me So fast it takes over my mind. I depend on it to soothe me, Like soup for my sore, tightened heart, Like a wool sweater and socks For my cold self-belief Seeking snug plenty, curling up between my joints When it smells like burning leaves And seasoned monster flesh When chills run up and down my arms. Like invisible ants And I feel homeless Like the wind Bawling Plucking the leaves for tissues Only, they turn away gladly from their lofty homes in the hills To offer comfort, falling gingerly to the wind’s feet Ready at its beck and call. For me there is no one But the promise of whomever I choose. The promise of everyone And a guarantee of distraction. You sketch for me a forest of evergreens An emblem to trust that I can remake myself. I can last forever. And there’s a sudden burst of sun in the background. The landscape comes off the page and into life. We’re in it. It momentarily lightens the shadows of our actuality When it fills the rolling, unreasonable uprising Between the earthy tones of my shelter Aglow with pools of candle light And the fluorescent rifts you create that I can’t stop hallucinating about. You feed me white sticks, Fill my lungs with smoke —the only way I let you in— And the taste of bones. You’re my dream mood, The flavor of rebellion, And the first person to make me want to Snap my pen in half making ink splatter every which way, Prick myself with your thorns, Dig my nails into my upholstered skin and scrape off the prettiness, Climb down from my Ivory Tower, Jump off my High Horse. Away from everything . . . Including you. Say whatever you want, Say it all. It doesn’t have to be coherent. It never is when you open your mouth. You’re all over the place Thinking you’re servile enough for me to return. I said I was struggling with my addictions, Not that I was giving into them.
Single Word Inspiration
The writing exercise I would recommend to anyone is to set a timer for 5 or 10 minutes. Choose a random word from a handy book, start the timer and write, inspired by this word, without stopping or crossing out until the timer goes off. Read it out loud. This is a good way to tap into what’s going on in your unconscious and to also have the freedom to write without the pressure of being good or perfect. It’s an exercise from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones.