self portrait as black hole
black hole where are you, where is my face?
is it rattling, my face? my face
black hole sunflower bitten
in dirt & slow decay
rotting pretty pearl
shiny, lost, are
you? my face.
my face,
you.
black hole where are you, where is my face?
is it rattling, my face? my face
black hole sunflower bitten
in dirt & slow decay
rotting pretty pearl
shiny, lost, are
you? my face.
my face,
you.
Ze whispers:
You get through this.
You get through this.
You get through this.
There was a poet
Most certainly did know it
But would not show it
Then changed his mind, wrote one hundred poems, submitted them to journals, all of them were rejected, so then he self-published, and now he has a thousand books in his basement, minus the ones he gave to friends and relatives, who said they liked them.
When I look back at those photos
I see the person I’ve become, not
unlike the person I am today. Tales of
snowy winters and subtropical summers.
When I used to take selfies most days,
foolishly pretending to be some sort
of celebrity. I suppose that’s what any
tween would do when she first got a phone.
I don’t take those selfies today, yet a part
of me still smiles at the camera after a long
run in the heat. A part of me still wants to
recall the memories as the decades pass by.
In those summer days, I attempted to paint
the world, every single piece. That’s what a
beginner does; she wants to make a name for
herself and mirror the oil paints in museums.
These days I’ve learned greatness can’t grow
overnight and I’ve found myself listening to
soft, slow music writing lost songs. My art
seems to develop gradually in a glass chrysalis.
When I look back at those photos
it seems like centuries have gone by since
I was her. But it wasn’t forever ago and she
was trying her best. I am trying my best.
When full, does the jar fear being emptied? Or does it fancy the gratification of a good purge?
Will twisting the lid and popping the seal satisfy, like unbuckling a belt? Or is that quick release more perfunctory, like hanging your hat once safely indoors?
Is an empty jar, tightly topped, fully clothed?
When you scrape the last swabs of sweetness from its cornerless walls, will the jar finally be nude?
Is the label an overcoat, an undershirt, or a layer of skin?
When upended and given a sharp tap on the bottom, will the jar protest? Will it shriek in alarm,
or will it squeal in delight?
Vol 1:
Vol 3:
My nervous system
Feels like broken plates
I’ve canceled the appointments
The scans were gonna add up
The physical therapy seemed daunting
The neurologist, the heart doctor
I got overwhelmed
And would have rather been in pain
A medical mystery it seems
I even canceled therapy because my therapist turned into
My abusive grandmother
I can’t find another
I’ve tried
The last one canceled on me
I dug my feet in dirt and made myself
Breathe
The repressed memories started eating at me
Just how many people took advantage?
So many questions
So many realizations
I stopped taking those vitamins
I got terrified of the anti-depressants
And I got buried under the piles of non-existent money
I can’t afford to be broken
during the summer
my landlord pays me fifteen an hour
back-breaking work
in upkeeping his farm
he can’t see so well anymore
refuses to admit that
he’s wearing down
none of his kids will help
bolstered in independence with degrees
why should they
I’m here to work against
his eighteen hundred dollar rent
in the end
he’ll die knowing his land
will fall into the laps
of those that couldn’t care less
with the upkeep
of a dead man’s farm
The mountains are full of sulfur and sacrilage.
Where the religion you played at fell at your fingertips
and the burn of my rage fell deeper than any whisky.
Directives issued in burning rain,
where you promised the world to your ragtag band of converts.
Falling into wonderland through the holes in your logic.
How far could you take your disallusions?
To the alter of burnt bridges?
To the feet of men who smoke cigarettes?
Will I be the next art piece you bury?
You took me to these mountains
now you get to watch me die.
“It hurts”
I tell her,
“I can’t keep going”
I say,
I’m covered in sweat,
Tears burn my eyes,
My breath comes in short, shallow bursts,
I can’t keep going,
But she won’t let me stop,
She will not hold my arms up,
She does not ease the pain,
She forces me past the finish line,
And makes me run until I fall,
Once I fall, she screams,
She won’t let me stop
Because “I’m not trying hard enough”
