crooked as corkscrews

i.
my affection can really only be described as violent
and I’m sorry that you never asked for this.
I’m sorry that you didn’t willingly offer your chest
as a sacrifice to my devotion
and that I took scissors to it anyways.
like kids attempting to dig a tunnel through the earth in their backyard
I was trying to excavate a pathway to myself.

I can see now that
THIS PLACE DOESN’T EXIST IN YOU
but I’m selfish enough to continue searching for it anyways.

maybe-
maybe it’s better to forget all you’ve lost,
to just throw the boomerang and run away,
but that raises the assumption that displacements are meaningless
and I like to think that the missing pieces of my body
have scarred over and become invincible.
I refuse to believe that my healing
is anything less
than fearless.

ii.
I suppose that what I’m getting at is
it’s really terrible,
to be in love.
you’re always waiting
and you’re always hungry.
it’s a brave brazen heart
constantly aching
for more.

I’m not really so hard & cynical after all — in fact I’m still dangerously soft.

unbeingdead isn’t beingalive

You silly little girl,
you think
you’ve survived so long
survival shouldn’t hurt anymore.
You keep trying to turn
your body bulletproof.
You keep trying to turn your heart
bomb shelter.

Stop, darling.

You are soft and alive.
You bruise and heal. Cherish it.
It is what you were born to do.

It will not be beautiful,
but the truth never is.

Come now,
you promised yourself.
You promised
you’d live through this.

When I haven’t been kissed in a long time, I create civil disturbances, then insult the cops who show up, till one of them grabs me by the collar and hurls me up against the squad car, so I can remember, at least for a moment, what it’s like to be touched.

I saw them hiding in the yellow field, crouching low
in the varnished dark. I followed them pretending
they were me because they were. I wanted to explain
myself to myself in an understandable way. I gave
shape to my fears and made excuses. I varied my
velocities, watched myselves sleep. Something’s not
right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it–
living in the worst parts, ruining myself. My inner life
is a sheet of black glass. If I fell through the floor
I would keep falling. The enormity of my desire
disgusts me. I kissed my mouth, it was no longer
a mouth. I threw a spear at my head, I didn’t have
a head. Fox. At the throat of. The territory is more
complex than I supposed. What does a body of
knowledge look like? A body, any body. Look away
but I’m still there. Birds flying but I’m still there,
lurk there. Not just one of me but multitudes in
the hayfield. Want something to chase you? Run.
Take a body, dump it, drive. Take a body, maybe
your own, and dump it gently. All your dead,
unfinished selves and dump them gently. Take only
what you need. The machine of the world–if you
don’t grab on, you begin to tremble. And if you do
grab on, then everything trembles. I spent my lamp
and cleft my hand. Deep-wounded mind, I wasn’t
doing anything with it anyway. And the birds looking
for a place to land. I would like to say something
about grace, and the brown corduroy thrift store coat
I bought for eight-fifty when you told me my
paintings were empty. Never finish a war without
starting another. I’ve seen your true face: the back
of your head. If you were walking away, keep walking.