Category Archives: poetic-prose

This is the Divine, Cezanne Would Agree

There was a tear on her side as she walked to the train station. Nothing seemed familiar, not even her hands, which gripped the straps of her purse as people rushed by. The three windows above her made her think of a cathedral.

I wish I were in my room, she thought.

But she just kept moving, bumped here and there by passerby.

Because someone sent her a message on her phone about God, she thought to kneel. Just Surrounded by hundreds of people pushing on and on into a black cloud, she imagined, of Otherness.

I wish I were in my room. The walls are white and the sound of wind through tress, comforting.

But she just kept moving. Bumped here and there by words, bodies, reaching architecture of buildings outside. Calling her immortal and mortal at the same time.

Tired, she leaned against the railing of one of the great staircases. Stones brought over from quarries carried by men and machine.

What was her body to do now? Her brain couldn’t conjure up an image or a word, or even the names of the constellations painted on the ceiling. Libra, Taurus. Cancer.

Get me out of here.

The tear on her side blossomed into branches, sprouted white-somethings.

Hands unrealized, body unheard of.

She read recently of a man who walked into a desert, though it was only his closet. And because he hadn’t eaten in three days, the sand formed between his toes. He didn’t answer his phone for 56 hours. Clothes became cacti and his heart found a sage tree on which to recite prayers. He carved letters there, stuck his shoes into a rockface and let God tell him whatever was on His mind.

I don’t exactly know what to believe, she mouthed, slid down the stone from quarries carried by men and machine, took out a piece of gum from her purse, chewed until her jaw hurt.

Once, she had a dream that she stood in this exact place and undressed. No one noticed. They rushed into the subway. And because no one noticed, she climbed to the top of one of the great staircases and jumped. The floor became an ocean and her body sunk into it as into a whale. Above, the ceiling still pained with constellations and the Zodiac. When people passed, they didn’t fall into water but kept moving, as though the ocean was only hers, and her body, a strange seaweed, tentacles twisted, liberated

The windows, three in a set against the other, seemed to understand. Because otherwise, what’s the language of thought but glass fish that can’t get through.

The man who stepped into a desert that was only his closet cursed episodes of forgetting where one was. And she cursed him for his ability to walk into a closet and imagine a desert. She didn’t have the willpower to not eat for three days. Perhaps this was the problem.

If under the skin a language could birth, then why the branches from her side with white-somethings, leaning?

She could only imagine the branches. Not the desert. And this depressed her.

The windows heavy as breath blanketed anger over her.

Because someone sent a message to her phone about God, she thought of kneeling. But she didn’t. And she regretted it.  Instead she bit her pointer finger just below the second bone until pain blossomed the white-somethings even further.

Dear Man Who Hasn’t Eaten in Three Days,

What is He saying to you? I’ve been waiting for hours in the train station for that kind of sex.

I don’t want to be, she thought, anywhere.

Besides, she mouthed, I have a tear in my side, no way to heal the unrealness of hands.


Now, back in the white-walled room, she understands the cage of canary-words. They feather her from desperation to resignation.

She writes:

It has rained all morning. I bought an apple to eat, but it keeps staring at me. I let it turn brown. My white-somethings push out my side.

I will hit myself three times in the chest. I will then contemplate jumping off a cliff. I always wonder, will I pass out before my body hits concrete?

Two hours later:

Got coffee at Dunkin Donuts. Sat in my car. Tried to meditate on the rain. Saw only randomness.

Last week, my mother told me the family had some sort of “plan” when I was younger. I was “so out there” they were afraid I might kill them. This could be the underlying root of why I don’t want to leave my room.


Dear Man in the Closet,

Are you able to abstain from food because you’re not a woman?

For example:

Last week, I read of an elderberry-tree that turned into a Mother. She took her revenge on a young woman’s throat.

The thought startled me into believing the way to God was through a woman, though I suppose she’d have to eat, in order to feed you.


I think when I was small, she thought, I had a tower inside me that was only reachable if I urinated on myself.

The difference is, Angels speak to the girl through the window, and only after she cuts herself free of any pain.


Man in the Closet, Contemplating Why the Cactus is Beautiful, but Untouchable—

He writes,

Haven’t eaten in days. The sand is almost-real. Beginning to hear the voice of God. She stands with ribbons in her hands at the window, makes me watch as she wraps them around her throat until it cuts through.

56 hours since I’ve checked my blackberry. This is a new record.

Two hours later:

For some reason, Love Me Do replays in my mind. I try to meditate on the desert before me, the small grouplings of cacti in the corner, but the words keep coming.

Sometimes, Muddy Waters talks to me. Little Girl, Little Girl gives me an erection. I don’t suppose this is normal for one in a closet, fasting.


I bought a blood orange instead, she wrote, because today, I have a feeling I’ll get something from You.


Dear Man Walking into a Desert that’s Only Your Closet,

I don’t want to be a woman. I don’t want the train station windows, jumping into the whale mouth.

She writes lists off the orange body

She writes to keep Georgian chants at bay

And whistles the thistle for its own sake

Stepping lightly over spilled letters

Such as: Don’t Tell Me, You’re Drinking—

Sage Root from Between Her Legs—

Again. She writes with her tongue

After a cut on the window. Cezanne,

She thinks, He would approve. So she paints

Donkeys hanging from a string, twisted open,

Braying “Everything! The Ritual of Our Body!”


Man, Closeted Three Oranges and a Blackberry Messenger Status:

If I eat myself from the outside in,

Perhaps I’ll beat the chest of her

Cacti. Last night, dreamed she

Stood atop an old cathedral,

Pissed herself, then jumped

Into a sea of donkeys, praying,

Take Us to Israel! Mouth of

Whale! Orange Peel, our sides

blossoming white-somethings–

Make the Unreal Hands, Real.

This is the Divine, Cezanne would agree: Woman Jumps Through A Cathedral Window To Taste a Blood-Orange, Rumored to be The Last Seed of Christ.


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to The Gift, humble

Today, I spent most of the day reading and writing. The writing was labourous at first. It was a chipping away for a while, then a crack, then a generous delta. I celebrated the coolness of it against my neurons. How much a gift to take that feeling in the chest, mold it, and sing it into a poem or work of art. It doesn’t always come easy, and sometimes, the best dirt-beds for those feelings vanish, are shy, and leave before you can articulate them. But I have come to find that those are the most fertile moments and must be sought out in the only place to find them–among the living.

While it can be very tempting to spend the majority of the time at the desk or place-of-making, what is most important is to live. It has taken me a long time to really understand this lesson.

Last night, something of-growth happened to me. Though I will try to articulate the event(s), I know that by their very nature, they are word-less–resistant to explanation.

Often when I’m trying to make-something of the pressing weight on my chest, or the flow of feeling throughout my body, I forget from where they were first born, nourished. I think I caught a glimpse of that birth-place last night.

I took a moment, a very clear, beautiful moment and thought, “why not own this fully? Why be scared of taking it into my body and ENJOYING it?”

Someone’s body was close. I held out my hand. Have you ever noticed the soft down, how it feels like a field of wheat against the skin, mouth? I thought, maybe God loves the world this way. In one second to another, I felt as though I was outside-looking-in on my own body and someone else’s body.

I remember as a child how astonished I felt looking at the sun set over the flatlands of my home in West Texas. Dirt softly floated to a higher plane than where it belonged, having faith in the wind, and not mourning the ground, and in their bits-of-joy, the dust helped dress the sunset in the most gorgeous variations of red, orange, gold. Something more distant held out its hand as a light blue, then darker, above it, leading to faintest-idea of stars. The ground, flat, generous, and wide, let me gaze further than I should. How I miss the feeling my body would have–as though yearning to stretch beyond its own limits like the mesquite, multiplied.

This is how I felt when I really looked at an other body.

Why not own this moment? I thought.

I knew I had to drive home, and suddenly, the thought that I could be taken. Any second, I could be broken out of my body and taken from this plane to another. When someone really sinks their teeth into this inevitable end everyone will someday face, they could be sitting in a park bench with a friend, in bed with a lover, alone on a country road, or surrounded by strangers on a late-night train, and anyone, anything around them, could be their closest companion–their longest friend. Because in that moment, that’s all there is. In the last-moment, there is no other birth. You are no one else / with no one else.

I drove home, remembering the skin, the hair-field of the last person I saw’s body, and said, Thank you God. I didn’t know why, but the gratitude of that fleeting moment of seeing-how-things-truly are, when I never take time to see them most days, was the most bitter-sweet blessing I have felt in a long time, if ever.

That is the birthing ground of what moves through me, settles, stirs, hears a call, and flies out the top of my head when I write, chant, want.

What’s interesting about this is that the moment wasn’t just a gift of joy or understanding. It carried a weight of anxiety, like everything else.

All day today, I remembered the looking-into of last night and felt a dark side of panic wiggle its body out of a dark mud and bear its teeth.

I guess it’s because, when something Other and magnificent is given to us, we don’t want to acknowledge its eventual slipping-away. The slipping-away could be the next moment (though ghostly revisiting us when we recall, recall) or, it could be the passing away of a loved one, a dissipation of inspiration–whatever it is, though we learn to own it, accept it, appreciate and know we deserve it, we want to KEEP it. Hold on to things.

But I thought, I thought, what made it so sweet was precisely the knowing that it could not last. And that I would pass.

And so I kissed it, cherished it, let it go.

If the same returns, or if another-like-it presents itself to me–a poem, a burst of inspiration, a lover, my lover, my God, a voice, I will try, harder and harder, to just let things come, let things go. Be humble to The Gift.

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All’s gonna be fine when you die, said the cow head to the man

Vision of a man who thought himself a god hanging clothes on a line, singing “all’s gonna be fine when I die.”

I heard screams from the side—

I’m sick. I didn’t ask for this.

You didn’t ask for much, said the rabbit.

Take the thought and spin it into a knot. That’s what’s going to save you.

What’s going to save you, I said, is to hide in the ground.

That’s what you think, said the rabbit.

What ever happened to the cow, I said.

He got his head removed. Now its somewhere in Omaha, listening to birds, waiting for a man by the ravine.

When it got to the ravine, it was eye-socket, jawbone only. Sheet rock covering where the eyes would be.

When you travel, finally, into the wide, you will understand the body.

I have a pain, right here, I said to the rabbit, as I crawled on my knees.

That’s symbolic, said the rabbit, for love. But you didn’t lose it. It lost you.

How many months will the vision last? I said.

He got his head removed. Shame. Now its somewhere in Omaha. Focus on the cow, said the rabbit. Not your body.

I didn’t ask for this, I said. These visions.

So write through them, said the rabbit. I burrow in the earth. It works for me.

When I get to the ravine, what will be left of me? Where did you come from?

The rabbit said,

Somewhere, a man split a rock and hid his son’s first lock of hair in between. Then he buried it. The rains came that night. It was a full moon. What you don’t know, will save you. When he buried the rock, his son appeared to him in a dream, said:

I am the prophet that never was. I will work through you, your transgressions.

The man became an addict. Left his wife and traveled to Omaha. When his car broke down, he wept by the ravine. The cow head stopped its journey to talk to the man.

How many months will this pain last? Asked the man to the cow head.

He had drunk a fifth of whiskey and was feeling his body become lighter. Perhaps it was the sun, or the smell of grass. Wide eyed fields.

What does this have to do with me? I said.

Wait, said the rabbit. You didn’t ask for this, it was given to you. Let it happen.

So, the man started thinking about his son.

The cow head said, I am one and the same. He sent me to tell you, a woman in the future undresses each night and prays about your hands.

The drunk man wept. He thought about killing himself. But the bloom of pain brought women to his door in a rented hotel room outside Omaha.

On the second night, he dreamed of the cow head and the rock he buried for his son. Something came to in his mind. The woman beside him shook him awake.

Why you crying? Said the woman.

I hid all the alcohol from myself.

So the woman undressed and got into bed. Through her he imagined he was burrowing in the earth. Dark understands dark, he thought.

This wasn’t enough. So he went to Texas. Found a little girl.

The girl slept in a bed two doors down from him. He asked her to hold still one night.

I have to find salvation, he said.

I don’t like this. I said. It makes me feel.

I know, said the rabbit. You didn’t ask for this, it has been given to you. Let it happen.

The son of the man was a prophet who never was. He knew this. And the girl had a gift inside her he wanted to steal.

I know what you’re talking about, I said. And I don’t like it.

Understand, said the rabbit. The pain lasts as long as you think only about your body.

The man understood the girl had a gift. His son would have been like her. Talking to rabbits in her mind, or imagining cow heads. That’s what he wanted. He wanted to talk to her. But the man knew more through his body than his mind. So he held her, he turned her body around. She pretended to sleep.

That was the vision you didn’t ask for, said the rabbit. And now you know.

The ravine wept somewhere in Nebraska. An ant crawls on your arm somewhere in New York. You’re learning to think beyond your body. And this is what was given to you.

What about the boy? I said.

He works through his father’s transgressions. He gives you visions. This is what was written on your skin, when you tried to cut him out. Power comes from his rock.

When I was a kid, I said, I wanted to hurl myself into the field. Rabbits dotted their fear-bodies into earth. The girl next door had pet rabbits and I wanted to break their bones.

You had that man’s touch in you, said the rabbit.

Where’s this man now? I asked.

In your words, said the rabbit. When you touch another, when you speak, he’s listening.

And the man let go of the little girl, whispered, I could have broken you, but I didn’t.

He remembered the women who visited his door in a rented hotel room in Omaha. They were whirlwinds asking for salvation. He couldn’t give himself enough liquor to drown out the shadows of their pain.

He sent the girl on her way. Said, tell no one.

Kissed her bone, left.

His son came to him in a dream. Said, I am the prophet that was meant to be, and wasn’t. I will work through your transgressions, and give the girl back what you’ve stolen.

He left Texas. He left messages on the highway. How long will the pain last, he asked the cow head by the ravine.

Until she releases you.

Salvation comes in visions. You didn’t ask for this, but it was given.

Vision of a man who thought himself a god hanging clothes on a line, singing “all’s gonna be fine when I die”

I heard screams from the side—

I’m sick. I didn’t ask for this.

You didn’t ask for much, said the rabbit.

Take the thought and spin it into a knot. That’s what’s going to save you.

Man with the son in the rock, I bless you. Knot you in my bones, your visions. Beyond my body, your pain.

All’s gonna be fine when you die, said the cow head to the man.

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That’s a lonely desert

You have told me nothing is coming to you. That when you wake, it’s as though someone else is home within your body and perhaps you’re somewhere in a loft, counting spider webs, listening to wind and shadowy things.

You write that your mind has left a space you cannot fill, though you try, drugging up snails and bits of words as you walk to the bus stop. I know. And have avoided writing about it, have slept for hours instead of stare into the blank page to answer you, because I, too, am off somewhere counting the geometry of spider webs.

Honestly, I hope that’s where we are, you and I. That our bodies may be in mud, but that we are somewhere higher. Though shadows persist even there, as we count the webs given to us.

When will this lift? You ask. Ask me tomorrow. Today I am wandering, like you.

When was the last time a current came to your door? Perhaps it is coming, but still distant, far off and crying “faith!” I hope.

Because this morning, in the bath, I caught a moment sputtering by, shadowed in a mess of pain. Poor thing, it could hardly walk. It was crawling in the wood paneling, whispering. It was taking it’s own skin and shedding it.

I know what that’s like. The desire to peel away the excess of day, the film of boredom. Self-induced or not, it’s alein. The moment kept circling, crawling, whispering, peeling, bit by bit, its own skin away. Reveal! I said. Go on, let us see what’s under you.

Like when I woke, arm next to me. Wanted to scrape, see if I could get a bit of bone to show through. But flesh is flesh and my mind is off somewhere I cannot reach. Perhaps with you. Perhaps we’re singing and we don’t know it yet.

Don’t you feel a shadow hanging over you? You asked.
When I lie down it builds mountains on my chest so I can hardly breathe.

You say you want to fight against the alien inside you. I know.
When you speak, it’s void, when you write, it goes nowhere, reaches no one.

And that’s a lonely desert in which to have no resources, no moon or cactus flower to speak to.

But the current is coming, and whether you drown from its power and never find your body again, or it trickles in, slow and with tenderness, it will come, speak your name, give you back to yourself.

Lie down. Be dead. Still. Tear skin away. Hear minutes unhook their scales.

When will this lift? You ask.

Ask me tomorrow. The shape of things vortex at my door, too. If I go one step nearer to inquire, I might drown. Sometimes the questions feed the shadow. It grows into what looks like starlight, what parades as promise.

And that’s a lonely desert. Thinking your next word will be what saves you.

Lie down, I told myself.
And I tell you this, too. Be still.

The alien inside? Don’t fight it. Let it breathe. Tear skin away in segments. Minutes will unhook their scales and we may never feel real again. This is what it’s like,

daydreaming of cactus flowers to speak to. A moon.

I’ll answer. Step nearer the vortex. Call myself from the loft where I count geometric webs.

Shadow, I answer back.

Wait. A current is coming.

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He said, Catfish can’t hurt you ’cause you can cook ’em after

You know how sometimes you think you’re goin’ crazy?
OK, OK, but I don’t mean, Oh I’m goin’ crazy ‘cause I can’t find my car keys and the kids are yellin’ so loud you can’t think.
I mean, really crazy.
Like someone came along and took that brain right out of your head, crazy.
Like nothing seems to be in the right place anymore.
Not the streets, not the little lines on the road, not even your toes. That kind.

I was at the grocery store the other day. Had to buy somethin’ I don’t remember. I don’t remember what I was gonna buy, probably for one of the kids.
That’s the point.

‘Cause I was standin’ there in the meat section, lookin’ down at the words pork and poultry. Pork and poultry.
And in my head I knew one of ‘em was pig and one of ‘em was bird, but which ones?

And the harder I thought about it, the more I thought about fish. I mean, big fish, like catfish, oversized heads and whiskers and wanderin’ eyes in a lake when I was a kid.

And I thought, pork and poultry, pork and poultry.
Just couldn’t seem to wrap my head around it.

People kept pushin’ by and someone said somethin’ on the loudspeaker about milk and I got all hot and cold at once like I was swimmin’ in a lake with a bunch of catfish.
Weird, don’t you think?
Whiskers and all.

And it shouldn’t be scary, but it is.

Somehow someone kept sayin’ something about milk right over my head and I didn’t know where I was, ‘cept my feet were getting cold. Toes didn’t look like my toes. Started to turn blue at the tips.

I was wearin’ sandals ‘cause I ran outta the house to get to the store before pickin’ up the kids from school.
And I looked at my toes and I thought about those catfish.
And swimmin’ in the lake when I was a kid, terrified they’d bite my toes.
And feelin’ that tightness in the chest, like you can’t breathe. Can’t swim.
Like all the water starts pushin’ against you in a way like a ton of weight.

Pork and poultry.

One was a pig and one was a bird. Or was it a fish?

Someone kept sayin’ something about milk and I tried to check my head.
Milk was from a cow.

People kept pushin’ by.
Someone said, Ma’am, could you move so I can get some chicken breasts?

I was lookin’ at my toes, thinkin about the catfish. Someone just stepped on my toe, tryin’ to get by. Tryin’ to get a chicken breast.

Since I was wearin’ sandals, it hurt like hell. Snapped me out of the lake.

I thought, Oh shit, I gotta pick up the kids. Then it was like,
do I really have kids?
Where’d my brain go?

And I didn’t want to buy pork or poultry, didn’t want to buy milk. I mean, hell, I’d trade all of it for that heavy feelin’ in the lake.

I mean, catfish. I was so scared of catfish when I was a kid.

And dad’d make me go in there, laughing at the edge. Said,
Get in the water! Get in!

And I didn’t want to. I mean., I thought I was gonna get eaten. And he’d just stand there on the edge and laugh.
Ten more minutes! He’d yell. Then you can get out!

And I’d just hold my breath. I mean,
I’d just wish they’d go ahead and eat me. But then he’d say
alright, alright.

And I’d be breathin’ so hard.
So hard.
Said we sounded the same when we breathed.
Said I should just keep the swimsuit on.
Said the catfish can’t hurt you, ‘cause you can cook ‘em.

I mean, I haven’t felt that weight in a while. And here I am, late pickin’ up kids I never wanted, not yet. Just to get the weight off my chest.

But I’d go back.
I mean to the lake.
Instead of this grocery store.
Instead of buyin’ chicken.

I’d go back to swimmin’ until he’s finished all his beer.

Catfish aren’t so scary ‘cause you can eat ’em after.
He was right.

I mean, sometimes you just feel crazy.
Like you’re somewhere else.
The real you is.

And somehow you got mixed up and are standing in the meat section with someone else’s brain.

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She and the Other Address Her Sickness, Her Own and Otherwise

Her Address–

Not only was the not only present, I was not my only self, but the self that only had just begun to be herself–and that’s when the not only present had itself become itself.

They will say, I hate to admit it, but I liked her writing better before she got sick.

But the honesty!

No one wants that, and the potholes, the god-feared look of “having”

one wants to wish their lives lasted long enough to drink again

and again, you asked if I looked up, hooked my leg on a fence-post, saw skies

more alarmed at having been a sky

and not one of us, or my eyelash–no, I have looked

only for things in pockets, such as your watch, or a canary-feather

left over when on New Years so many things had children, minutes

apart—lovers lost their case-by-case arguments, dropped to see

whose kiss they were laughing into– what other ladybugs might be living

in so-and-so’s teeth. I told myself to call you

but friend, undo yourself and then get back to me.

Reflection of Other–

Understand, nothing she understood was mistaken for taking
the understanding from your hands, but understandably,
so-and-so was quite upset at what she understood, mistakenly.

Her Letter–

To answer your question, no I never learned about perrineals.

Though my bay window may, if I’m lucky, hold a thousand each spring in its eye-socket,

Lord, you should have seen the underthings they’ve got–perinnials–

root-toes two metres long, I swear it! Yours, S–

The Other Questions–

Did she write most days, or, when feeling ill, did she want other things, say

cantelope in the sunshine–did Otherthings take note of her

exact choice of words–mathematics?

I heard numbers–as lovers– occupied her bay window– ants on a biscuit, jammed

with honey and other hack-eyed-creature-curated

-sweetness.–Well, back when so-and-so took a hobby breaking into hives, I suppose that’s possible–


suppose mathematics and hive-construction go hand-in-hand, tortoise and mouse, that sorta thing.

On the Corner, Remembering Her Walk–

Perennials? No, not in this shop, love. Take yourself
down to the corner, I have a friend there named so-and-so.
Mad about things like that. Catch her
stone-like at the bay window most days,
equations teetering in her hands, like so–

Her Address, pt. II–

Before the sickness was sick of itself, her self was sick of the itself it became in herself–and it was itself only when most like a self that was herself, sick.

Reflection of Other II

Before she got sick, she stuck things in her blue jeans–

pockets filled with letters from them, or so-and-so,

a phone bill from the time minutes belonged to an ex,

before the plane-ness of mornings left its handle of jack

on the corner as a reminder that soon, Nothing had itself hooked

to the back of her head like lamp-things, but dark.

When she got sick, Nothing crept itself inside her to quit–

not a monastery–her body– but can it be? she asked,

can the wholeness of everything be under the weather and into my

pockets–underness and overness understood

by a solar system that’s ready for its nonchildren, red-dwarf by red-dwarf,

can hospitals be belligerent, drunk, piss themselves before they love themselves and give all to God?

Her Address, pt III–

2) in a list like this, I’d say the only thing, mind you, that minds itself into a whirl is a friend who took herself too seriously, called the opposite its counterpart
and I, well, she called me crazy and understandably, for I

snipped up her favorite clothes because I wanted to,

and the slumber party was boring,

and in moments such as those, hidden, taking a secret like that tastes like steel,

shot up like angel-joy, through the circular of girl-wholeness.

That dress, well, I wanted it. But instead, cut holes in it.

Laugh about that now, angel-gods, woman-god, watch

I’ll tear myself into that memory and be done with it. If I could warn every girlfriend now–

how land-hurt their body can be by me–myself a grounded plane–sick

understand this: under the lichen-hold–a man I owned once, but swallowed.

The Other Reflects Upon Reflection of Her–

You’ll be tempted, I’m sure, to categorize her symptoms, like boxes of glow-worms–
and shouldn’t we all stand here, tempted to catch her outing herself out–
land-hold-under-things—what Dr really knows the mind,
but to punch-hole charts, you’ll be tempted, boxed glow-worm, you are.

Further from Other–

Noted: alleluias in the morning–

Perennials in the bay window, scathing

at the site of the canary, held between

her mouth–understand–her mouth

carried sailors to God and back again

though her body wore itself into thin

paper–might as well called home,

as in a horse’s eye-bone, coal

twisted round an underness, pissed

it couldn’t glimpse into itself

before learning the mathematics of hungry.

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Schizophrenic Man Play / Reading

My friend, Anto, and I decided to have fun and read what I have so far on my script. 🙂

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