Do you remember me?
The lines of my forehead
worried, the whispers of
my tea making. Incessant
reminders etched in my
name even. You were
the moon and I was-
i was a physical mixture
pure air.
I am not eating again.
The emptiness is the only
heaviness i have to weigh
me to the earth. I've
started to wonder about
my heart. I thought it was
broken before but
now I'm sure. It skips
beats and I have been
to the hospital. They
told me.
Eat. I can't eat.
fresh oranges crinkling
juice out of the
clear catarpillar shells.
I love the taste of
oranges but I am
afraid.
Afraid of choking.
My grandmother had
to plunge her hand
down my throat once.
She extracted the orange
and the world expanded
again, I was breathing
again. But after that,
always afraid.
Oranges taunt me.
Their sunset colour
fresh summer smell.
You know. At least,
if you remember.
I feel like I have
a hole where my
heart was and at
times I strain to feel
it but the beat is
a mocking like a
clock I know is
about to go wrong
it may be 11:11 now
but at any moment
one 1 will drop and
the set will locate
lonliness looking around
endlessly for the other
not coming.
I feel like once I
felt your wings and
they felt fragile
but now all i feel
is the cage of the
world without the
softness of your feathers
pressing my hair
out of my eyes.
I am drinking tea
in a quiet morning
black orange pekoe
the closest to the
colour I can allow
Do you remember
waking up early-
so early it is dark-
the adults are crying
and we all must
start to pray so urgently
yes, the world is ending
I'm older now (you too)
but I still can't get
these early mornings out
I wake gasping to a god
i lost all faith in
I am eternally
four years old and
chicken little is all
too real. I wake up
gasping about to pray
tears coursing down my
face. I can feel the
urgency.
Did your mother
clutch at her own
chest and sob so
forlornly? Did your mother
light candles and
remind you of all
the torture coming?
We were born to
holy ones.
I don't know what
set her off those
times. She heard the
voice of god and
we must all listen
to the wind in the
pines. I thought i
heard him once too
but she told me to
be careful to speak-
others could think
I was crazy and
take me far far far
away.
As it was, we were
the chosen ones. So,
this is how the
world ends. Manacles.
Chains of all shapes
a viscious gaze. Now
they will ask me to
accept Sunday as the
Sabbath. Now they will
test my faith with fire
and cuts from steel
blades. I must stay
true for all this will
be nothing compared
to if I collapse.
I am afraid still
I see hell
coming. I am appalled
and enthralled. I think
somewhere I got a
malformed crush on
lucifer and how far
he could fall.
this is something i could
only confess to you...
Is your hair shorn
or does it fall around
like a veil? If you
thought of my folly
would it make a
smile stretch? Hidden
behind your hand or
your hair? So what.
I had the adolescent
hots for lucifer.
He could do so much.
I was sick of
sacrifice and blood.
He was Yes. He
was tearing the peel
off to get to
the flesh orange orange
orange. He was mischief
and beautiful dark eyes
saying Yes.
after yes he hadn't
the guilt. I am
still sick of the guilt.
I am still sick of
seeing my legs staining
once a month and
no matter how I try
to stuff the science
in-it gets in-
i am the dirtiness of
eve's line, born to
apologize for a fruit
i never tasted.
I apologized for
years already through
my blood. You
were there, then,
pressing cotton to
my arms.
You were the first
to hold me hostage
in your arms just
to say i was not
dirty. You were the
one unravelling their
lies.
I love you for that.
Your belief in me
grew slowly through
my mind like vines.
Is this the connection
still? It's all so tangling.
I am picking through
leaves, my mouth
smeared by the berries
of thought that
tried to get in.
I am trying so
hard to be normal
in a world I
did not grow up in.
This world was a fable
of satan, remember?
The cities of Sodem and
the godliness of whoredom
and man's reckless swinging
toward godhood for
themselves.
I feel like a mannequin
or a piece of breeze
so apart still. I just can
not decide if i should
be breathing.
We are not children
of this city; we
never went to a
single prom. We are
not children of
these parks. We
stand ackwardly
at the few night
clubs we've gone to.
I know you can't
wait to get back
to your apartment
because I feel it too
so strongly.
I borrow your beauty
sometimes. Your I don't
care energy. I pick
my way through the
crowds in the morning
coffee cup clutching.
I don't care i don't
care or your other
bemused bemused bemused
but always sepparate.
I borrow a lot of you
because, frankly, I like
you a lot more
than I like me.
Is that more of
my conditioning? You,
after all, were your
parent's first born son.
First born son mythology
was stuck into us so brutally.
We were smart to leave
but mythology is immortal
and we could never travel
far enough.
Look at us! All the
continents between us.
Your parents dragged you
into danger preaching.
My parents never even
acknowelged danger
dragging me between
their indecisivness.
I am so tired
of the hiding
so i have to
tell you all the
places I've been
trying to sear the
bible stories out of
me. I wonder if
the telling is growing
the vine inside
our minds.
When we left, did
we realize it would
be a life long process?
And isn't it funny,
my career? It's a
big F-U- to the
flowered aproned
dresses, the no cosmetics,
the no adornment.
I had to be in the
most aethetically pleasing
salon I could find.
I had to surround
myself in superficial
beauty. I had to
find somewhere that
has wearing lipstick
in the dress code.
My shears are even
extravagent- the kind
of steel finish that
looks like an oil slick
a dull metallic rainbow
that enchants as it
clouds hair into pleasing
shapes. I am smiling
in the midst of
exhaustion there because
to them it is the
courting of lucifer.
let them think me
gone already to hell!
their heaven gave me
such scars!
We've read Jung,
Nietzche, Proust;
we've read forbidden
fiction and philosophy.
We know psychology
traces things to childhood
dreams. We know
the rattling of words
in our throats.
the coughing continues
i draw flowers out.
Stems, leaves, petals,
stamen. They wove
a moses basket, where
I put my
miscarried babies in.
I have streaks of
tears on my face
for futures that
were bent right
back to the past.
......
you bring flowers of
philosophy
you left me
buried six feet under
Sunday morning
i was born again.
.............
My mother tells me
I was born without
air. No doctors, and
the cord wrapped
three times around.
I feel I am still
gasping.
So for a moment,
let us humour
psycology.
You were born
when your father
was sleeping. Was
he still asleep?
he, in another life,
was a scientist.
he closed those
eyes and opened
his heart to the
cult. You were
named for his
journey.
When I was young
there were some
magical things:
crab apple trees,
hay bale jumping,
deer at salt licks,
auroura stretched
dripping watercolours
down.
My brothers and
sisters played tag
hide and seek
and bear. The
forest stretched
up and up and
the beavers built
their dams.
Imagine the chill air.
the dogs barking hello.
the neighbors come for
tea.
Then my mother and
the old man argue
the apocolypse.
The magic was
still there. It just
changed to the
cosmic kind, where
my mother was as
helpless as i.
and i felt it to
my bones. In the
end of ends,
no one would protect
me.
Can you still quote
scripture? Remember when
we were told the
holy books would burn
and all we had was
our memory? So,
do you still remember
John 3:16?
I thought by now
we'd all be dead,
or in heaven watching
the dying die-
angels reading scrolls why.
My face close to yours on the grass
then
and your smile pressed into my back
when
i laughed cried sighed oh god, is this
it then for me? this acceptance? the last
stage to my growing? more and more acceptance?
i am a coughing creature, i am constant
contradictions, colour concentrated, can not
pick favourites, i am laughing out loud
and shuddering down on sadness. i am.
unable to stand criticism. bend for years
until SNAP, change comes natural, stasis is
hard. i am dragon fly winged on all days
except halloween, tulle and glitter and
not always practical until i am the most
pragmatic person ever to be met, with
carefully constructed reasons, yeses and nos.
i am the quiet one in the corner crafting, the
singer with the loudest voice and strangest
way of playing the piano with my feet, i am
cat addicted, people distrustful. i hate conflict
so i would rather not bother try having long long
long long relationships of any sort, i'll lose my
voice. will i?
will i?
will i?
