Monthly Archives: August 2009



I do not want to move. I sunk in the bath so my ears were submerged. The fear of hearing ones own heartbeat, attention to the muscle that goes out, flickers, in a moment. It will.


I’ve lost the will to write to you. Pacing back and forth in the hall, hair leaving trails on the floor, I caught a shadow that wasn’t mine. Ghosts, you said, love us indiscriminately because of our heat.


Silence builds things behind our back. Cities, dorms, caves. Maybe even a bird house.


There’s a storm out. The waves are calling out numbers. 5202, they said, and then, 64. I wait for the 3’s. Nothing. What keeps me from writing down my last note and forgetting what I promised?


I picked up smoking again. This is the one true thing I’ve done all day. I make myself feel better by counting the inhales. Three and then I put it out.


A moth landed on my arm. I shook it off then regretted it. Convinced it was my grandmother trying to tell me something.

The cigarettes comes on the heals of the apparition. Seeing things takes the whole length of you, then buries it.

Tell me something about your wrist. Keep me distracted so I won’t feel a weight inside me grow larger.

Silence, you said, is a blessing. And I kept still for four hours, only the waves outside broke my concentration.  I feel like fading.

I’ve lost the will to write to you. Lost the deed somewhere in the courthouse. There are hundreds of You’s. Lists I keep in my bathroom, under the rug. The water does it’s damage, I know this, but I’m hoping the names will smear until all of you run together.

There’s someone I keep meaning to ask forgiveness from, but who knows where coyotes keep their kill.

While living in the desert, I’d wait all evening just to hear one coyote call to me. This was a sign to kneel. I’d carry mesquite branches and build a nest, then hold myself to it, hang ribbons off the bones, have a communion of sorts.

Now, the letters I rummage through tell me nothing. Last week, I kept peeling the skin off bark and humming, just to calm down.


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I took a vow of silence yesterday. So, today is the first official day, and all I feel is anxiety in my chest. I worry that I’m not producing enough quality work, constantly debating if anything I do has a point or not. Why am I writing at all? Or drawing, or living in New York? Part of me just wants to go to the mountains and live with pine trees.

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There is a bird flying into my chest!

There is a bird flying into my chest!

When I wake in the morning, it curls back, ruffles

as I brush my teeth. It swirls

into the lunch-room, hungry for my name. Still,

it canters into the windshield as I drive, breaks its neck

to see me.  Again,

there is a beak, eyes locked—

a blind bird not knowing. Both of us

whirled in madness, being here,             separated.

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Not a Stillness, but a Shattering: Thoughts on Dissociation, Part 1

Sitting here, it seems strange to revel in stillness when everything inside me wants to burst out, break open, or make a crowd nervous.

Yesterday, I sat in front of a mirror, brushing my hair, and stalled. Stillness again took me by the throat, but kind. Who was before me in the mirror? As though a body was placed here on earth and I was suddenly in it, but unaware of its geography, form, length; even the voice that bubbled up seemed strange. I began to talk, mumble, just to hear the vibration, the strange, half-realized notes of someone I did not know.

From this perspective, a gift that I still have not realized, an examination of self, knowing the self is the greatest of all illusions, and for a moment, the Universe revealed itself to me by showing me I did not exist as I previously thought.

And so, today, it seems odd to be so still when an energy threatens to till me into a thousand separate crops, a dazzling sky of selves instead of the one that believes she exists to write this for you.

Six hours have passed that should be six minutes, or three books have been read as though letters from friends, postcards, mere passing notes. And in each one of them, a bit of my voice.

Strange, longing for a stillness that is no stillness at all, but a shattering, shouting canon into an almost opposite stillness—the place where, lying in bed, one could swear they are no longer in a room, on a street, in a city, on the ground at all, but expanded beyond thought in a space-hanger, a place other-than, where rational thought no longer exists, and neither does the body.

As a child, this is a living-dream, formed while eyes are open and glazed, waiting for recess, waiting for play, imagination, to take full possession of their time, but stuck in the classroom or in some other adult-induced task, they sit, bound by routine. This is exactly where the lifting happens, where, as now grown adults, remember to daydream and become another body altogether.

And, sitting in front of the mirror, brushing my hair, the disassociation experienced lifted me to the place other-than, but above even the childhood day-dream, above even the self, where, part of the Unknown came in and gave me flowers, came in and handed me a broken watch and a cup of otherness, poured over my head.

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Apparition Pt. II

After the 12th hour, the pillow

stales; she rejects her

body, leans against radiator-ribs–

Keep to the thighs, burns

speak about God in third person.

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If the cloud edge puts on gold and dances

If the cloud edge puts on gold and dances above me,
I may want to curl my tongue around it.

If the man peeling clementines splits the pages open,
I may taste the air between us and moan.

If the sudden notice of death hangs between me and the next book on the stack,
I may want to dedicate my body to science before I’m dead,

want only my spirit to leave me,
become flamenco and dizzy,

an ant full on watermelon,
forgetting the line of his brothers,

knowing nothing but bliss.

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An Apparition

An apparition on the heals

of losing strings, sunlight,

and what to say to a dying friend

who doesn’t know their dying.

Strings break when awoken

to bees on the spine, the dying

wake thinking of tying toes

to ground.  An apparition on heals,

in the library, plays real, says:

“You got the time? You ain’t gonna

make it, girl, you gonna give up and he’s

just fuckin’ ya. He’s just. Got the time?”

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