October 14, 2013 § Leave a comment

There’s a swell in me. So often do things relate to water, I think there must be a connection in my sign to surf, but I am a only a Ram. Rams do nothing but drink and dispel, sucking up lifeforce like marrow. I’ve seen no other writing like mine, I fucking suck and my fly’s down.

I think of things passed before us, the things we don’t speak out against. How sorrowful is the melt into passing time. Children hurt and neighbors die, isn’t that the way of it? I read my husband a poem once; he cried and held my hand in a sunset. I haven’t seen him since. The endings of some movies are true.

I just ramble and I just type and the words amount to nothing, they see no one or they see ghosts of faces pressed into screens and I think hooray, I am honest. Because no one sees me, I am alive and I drink freely, brooding silently over the welfare of my sister’s children. My son is nine today.

Sick, and feted and wasted are the roots that rot untended in my garden. I should check them now, but there are rules, aren’t there? We shouldn’t garden at night, we should mind our own fucking business, and now isn’t she ranting and losing it and doesn’t she weigh less? I am beautiful in my new dress, although I am losing my demographic. I’m mad and I’m a parody.

I should scream. I should open my mouth and scream. I should break glasses and dishes and stomp into them until someone takes notice. Who will notice? A screen, behind a screen, we’re immune. And then, then we fall into clotted lives that suck us into ourselves until we don’t see into the eyes of others. The contact, ugh, to look into sun spotted eyes, I shudder. I let him take a part of me.

How does love fit into a box — are we dying in our fucking boxes and sweating into nothing?

I bleed into flowers and land that doesn’t belong to me. It blooms deeply and thrusts blossoms at me; I vomit into flowerbeds and they produce beautiful, unspeakable things that no films capture. They make me weep in violet and I count out rhythms in 4/4 time to make them rigid. The crooks in their stalks disgust me and I sleep again and I work again and I mother again.

Captured into a burgeoning life and mind and smell that contains everything I’ve done wrong today. I smoked and I drank and I lied and I failed, every small failing of the day told and done. I sweat and groan ecstasy into today. There is another morning tomorrow.


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