not even death has to be a disaster
death can just be an illusory smell
that stays in the nostrils weeks after
something traumatic happens to your body
an unexplainable wrench
no one will understand when
you ask ‘do you smell that decay’
but then you remember a time that
where you had your face pressed
up to death
non happenings stick
quarantine has dismantled time
the space between life and death
has now become the
infinite version of it still
we all feel it
we’ve all been bashed inside
I went to visit my mother in Florida
she greeted me with a scar on
her forehead from when she
claims to have fallen while gardening
I told her that it looks like harry potters scar
there’s a lot of pain associated
with that scar
I can tell
her teeth are also missing
but that’s not new
half of her mouth is teeth
she says that it’s normal,
that’s what happens when you’re old
but she’s only 60 years old i tell her
when I arrived the dog greeted
my cat slowly looked back at me
it all felt like a distant sense of home for a solid
the same waves of sadness would come
and I left mute
I seemed to have lost the magic along the way. Perhaps it was stuffed in an old green backpack, lost somewhere in upstate New York and covered in leaves from several years ago. It doesn’t really matter when your in a new place or in mountain town. I’m making friends with the people I have known in a different lifetime. But still I feel like I lost something along the way.
Everyone is on a journey to a different country. I’m in a new place but still looking for that new country. Experience, yes, that is what I have acquired. Observation helps, like the observation I made of a temporary lover. That’s all I did actually. I watched him. I watched him as I let him into my house. He would tornado around my room and kitchen and then ask to use my bathroom. Announcing profound romance but not looking at me in the eye. I would watch the blood stains on his shirts. What’s crazy is the amount of effort he would put in to hide a major part of himself. The worst part, the addictive manipulative part. He wanted to keep that close. Let it shine. Let some air in. He’s cornered in the bathroom holding onto the thing that he has grown accustomed to and the ritual he would die for.
I’m sitting with the
dog on the kitchen floor
the walls in this house
are sand timers
slow moving honey
it stops for a second
as I look at the reflection
of me and the dog
in the background is
singing out of joy
it’s hard to tell
but its heavy and delusional
moans and groans
a heavy head
a heavy chest through
paralysis on both ends
lines …I’ll make lines
that I’m showering
we both pretend he’s showering
tie the belt real tight
the shower water is running
the sky here is
more like a screen
draping against the edge
of the world
while riding my
bike I like
to stand on the pedals
and stretch my neck towards it
open my mouth as wide
as I can and try to
consume the blue
I pass a mailbox with
yellow birds sitting on
top , frozen in verb
I pass the mango tree
that was once so ripe
a few weeks ago
the fruit hung heavy
abundant and tumbling
towards the canal
in the water
I am two feet
in front of myself
in sync with the
my skin is a dark purple
and there is a hole
in my chest
I look outside and
see the sun shine
in two places
a dark blue
remember what it
felt like to feel it
all at once
don’t lose the
I am for an Art with the smell of Spanish food that bleeds into busy streets.
I am for an Art with earth tones that blend into the outside world.
I am for an Art that allows the cat to scratch at and ultimately destroy.
I am for an Art that tucks me in at night only to wake up me at 1:00am.
I am for an Art whose lines repeat and roll into infinity.
I am for an Art that is found in hot garbage.
I am for an Art that is drifting through the subway train wind.
I am for an Art that is floating through a creek in the mountains.
I am for an Art at the bottom of an empty mug.
I am for an Art that’s in the desert land, in-between the suburbs and the city.
I am for an Art that is asking a question in response.
I am for an Art that doesn’t call for attention.
I am for an Art that doesn’t shave.
I am for an Art that cuts it’s own hair.
I am for an Art with thin, frail black lines, and vines all around it.
I am for an Art that one must eat cranberries and sip red wine to.
I am for an Art that is always on the verge of breaking.
I am for an Art that is burning, fueling the fire of something bigger.
I am for an Art that takes a century to create.
I am for an Art that is hard to look at directly without crying.