Posts for June 2, 2019 (page 3)

Try to sleep.
Two hours is better than no hours.
Bags under your eyes are better
than bags of your stuff on the street. 

Eat as healthy as you can. 
Sure that salad costs almost as much as you make an hour 
but you know you don’t have time to miss work for another doctor appointment. 
The doctor appointment costs almost 5x more than you make in an hour. 
Look at you being health conscious! 

Get your exercise by holding the weight of the world in your hands. 
For an extra challenge, 
pile on the cost of childcare, rent, food, electricity. 
They swear someday this will make you stronger. 

Pray. 
Pray that God will give you a way out, 
not matter if that out is all the way out. 

I may have failed, one
of my finals this semester;

but not being able to stop,
this basmati rice from becoming
mushy, is the greatest defeat
of the year

Honey, we all got troubles, she said, burning
one cigarette butt into a sweaty Coke can.
I played a bootleg Bible game on Nintendo. 
Do you also remember being
a slippery Noah, chucking stilted animals
into the Ark? It was strange: this nanny 
from church, and her wood-panel house,
and her phone conversation a first peek
into someone else’s world.

“you’re a mess, you know?”
seems cold. but her voice is warm
and she’s laughing.

i’m laid out, splayed out on the carpet
of our dorm room floor,
dress inching up my thighs
sweat beading through concealer.

my head swings south,
swings down. too heavy now
with the breath it takes to laugh back

to laugh along
as if I hadn’t had that same thought.

I was a child of sight and sound
Heavy with emotion, but too proud to share
Anything other than joy

Too tough for tears
Unless they came from the stories
Of loss and abandonment and fear

I was safe inside those stories
Free to feel whatever emotion
That rose to the surface

I told myself that it was not my pain
It was nobodies pain
Because it was simply a story

So cry until your head
Starts to pound.

And I would
cry and cry and cry
Until the tears felt silly

Then I would wipe my face
and pretend as if those tears
had nothing to do with reality

Call me persophone               
                         Call this shit a sun shower-
I am taking a blow to the ribs no matter how I                       
                                                                                                          run
                                                                                                   dodge
                                                                                                            bob
                                                                                                    weave
because nobody’s going to dig the hole for you               
you gotta bury the cat yourself
have to dry your own lungs out
got to burn your own house down take your own beating bite your own tongue

If truth isn’t truth,
What is truth?
Is this a Zen question?
Are laws made to be broken,
But only by certain people in power?

Maybe if the Mainstream Media refused to mention the President in their top stories,
But followed those top stories with, “In other news, the President made a couple of statements today,
You can see and hear these on our website,”
And then continued with other non-President news,
What would happen?
What wouldn’t happen?

I can’t remember calling
out when uncle Mark  
pushed me into the 
feeding chute. Circular jawing,
elliptical “what is a cud?”  

They remain some days 
in my sleep, grinding
square teeth together. 
My uncle smiles wistfully into his can of Stroh’s, 
tells me again about their killer
giant soft eyes with too much  

white on top and peering down
flared pink puppy stomach nostrils,
soft whiskered skin. 
Softer than anything I had ever 
been scared to death of.

She came through the window 
Dancing across my nose and kissing my cheeks
She is the most magical at this time of day
Oh the possibilities 
In a few hours you wouldn’t know her
Overbearing and painful
Making you beg for relief…
Just a few more hours and you will see her again 
She will leave beauty in your eyes
And impressions on your body
Her warmth will leave you, but her 
magic is always returning 

who will tell the bees
the poet grieves

their loss    carries desire
that has no name   aches

to make a living world
from words not yet spoken