April 27th, 192011

i write “Derrick” in a love poem,

thinking this means people may fall

for,

thinking people other than me are,

sometimes sideways and once,

a small placing like hands or chalk lines,

once tipping over like names that don’t come from,

once naming something inside a person who feels empty.

one time, “maybe people will fall in love with you.”

somewhere, buried in my closet.

somewhere, only my cat knows how to arrive.

sometime, forgetting who it really was.

a certain kind of shimmy, once two-fold, once the better half.

the name, only halfway.

Day Twenty Five/seven/4

as far as               formulas go

it is the capacity

                  

                                    of things in slices

                                                mostly

  where i understand

the importance

                            of literal meaning

how we

            sometimes

walk into

                                 all of it, at once

no sudden                                             basements

            or positing, like

chains    or    family    units,

     pluralities of

          neither           pointing

              backwards

            nor recognizing             numbers that shift

this is why language needs:

without soft               understanding,

my legs             are    no less likely

  than foreign

          words,                                                          kind of

  couches   that suggest  themselves,

by no means     comic

                        editorial

                        overinsightfulness

lost within armchair

&terrible cruelty

here, a first sentence

  is like a strange face:

burdened with the      responses

of lonely dogs,

  not necessarily

            completely

                                    realized,

but a similar

  craving      than

                           horizon,

          was once inspected geography,           was often

the ground,

    approaching our hands                          and

and all anyone can   be

is where the sunset may       happen

thirty years later,

                       our legs

                        continually

                        bending backwards,

trying to remember

                                    once

            fitting our knees

                 in appropriate          categories

           

            or a right   angle   that

used to be                        something,

                                                pretty



after K

Day, something

I’m being forced to write something.  The sun’s pictures of dead and dying fans squashed against the railings.  I’m not making it into cheapskate lemonade or authoritative figures, not just for dead people but for all images: they’ve no problem with making someone look a bit prettier or more appropriate for the grass photos of stepmother sin.  Do you know that almost all dead people are making some common home decorating mistakes that may make our home look wasted?  They were in and have been scooped up by the river side, not by wealth but understanding.  How ‘bout pictures of really, really large dead people?  Because more children are making it to adulthood, more people are putting up pictures in the house.  So compared to what people have been talking about here the pictures are quite candid.  Does anyone have any advice on making a Catholic Advance Directive?  Who owns the copyright to images of famous dead people?  Chances are they’re making a nice home for themselves in black issues or the naked photos; people have to speak!  How do they embalm people?  By making a purchase of 25% of each journal.  I’ve seen so many creepy pictures.  I’m not totally opposed to making fun of dead people, as long as they’re from Italy, certainly, and the effect of this promiscuous and indecent splashing down into so many wells just makes out a sliver of all the ignorant people.  Is it OK or not?  The importance of making a bunny of yourself involves allegedly trading pictures of people beneath interstate 4.  When I was in high school a quasi-friend died in a car accident; these are the best beauty tips and perhaps, at that time, your understanding of the photos shows little understanding of how people are still dying.  After all, making the desert bloom, carefully laid out and circulating people, nearly 3,000 of them, means you have the authority of the days growing shorter and people still looking for mischief and instrument.  Mt. Everest has around 2,000 dead bodies; the air is so thin that there is no margin for error.  I bet those people must feel like God, like 200 pics of almost everything posted to a Swedish or German website: taking up the information and spreading it along, making censorship next to impossible.

Day (Sixteen).2

“I thought I would die if my name didn't

touch me, or only with its very end, leaving

the inside open to so many feelers

like chance rain pouring down from the clouds."

                        ~Rosmarie Waldrop, CURVES TO THE APPLE

it was always about         choosing

                        up or down

it became                    a filled in space

            where my thoughts didn’t        breed,

sufficient already

like babies who don’t know       about their own

                                                     swimming

i became aquainted with stairs

                        couldn’t move through them    slowly

            i have to get them over with

i just felt                 spoken     

          once too many times

in            places where

                                    rain is still surprising,

my lack of thirst    gathering me

            troubled and wanting looks,

when fingertips    are all i know     to write with

so i       sometimes

 turn them inside out

make them                   bigger, bent up slightly

 talk them through a     

                            good deal             on

baskets of fruit,  places they can

curve around,     if that can be

                                 like getting at wholeness

i just felt     knocked over

                  monstrous

             a little too much like               tires

or a professor    of warmth      in

                                    the middle

                                    of bathing

a day    free of seasons,

            trying to count the ways

            people        go home

trying           to be more like

            real things,

                        hands around glasses,

things we         sleep close to    and

   press out of ourselves

                                    in the morning,

the times when you                 sturdy, filled with pewter

                    became my

                                    [despite myself]

rather than a bed,

                        prone now       to weirdness

in large areas, fields, big numbers like death

or taking off     my bandages

before

setting them down                   in your

                                                estimated

                                                fire

Day (Sixteen)

“I thought I would die if my name didn't

touch me, or only with its very end, leaving

the inside open to so many feelers

like chance rain pouring down from the clouds."

                        ~Rosmarie Waldrop, CURVES TO THE APPLE

it is eating me up alive, it is hard

to recognize,

i can barely remember my own face

if it touches me, it’s like nursing

a wounded hero and describing the battle

from the thieves point of view

it is very muscular, strong, funny, smart

but also can make no mistakes

about carrying me away

i can’t figure out if it’s

really touching me or not,

but doesn’t every girl

at some point

let someone else figure it out

don’t let anyone touch, use, or even mess

with your name, it gets fuzzy,

looks like a blemish people

can’t take their eyes off of

i can’t let it touch me or it may be real

that’s why i do this

that’s why my hands are turning clear,

when i fold clean laundry, my name

becomes dirty all over again

i think i should really rewrite it

and make it clearer or more heartfelt,

less arthritic, double plastic, it’s creepy:

i get gaggy and sick and heated and

i wanna puke, i’m more comfortable

with the glue on most stickers

i can’t get over my fear of small, dirty

pieces of paper, letters—god

help me—i recognize it

Day Fifteen

“whatever you choose to claim of me

  is always yours: nothing is truly mine

  except my name.”

               ~NaPoWriMo tweet

unless we break it    into    two parts,

the way your voice       hears me

or is it       

       radio voices,         actuality

no longer          anything like

little contained pieces,  just

                                             a bunch of fluttering

what it feels like

         embarrassment postponed,

          accidentally              large

and getting rid of           jackets

      they

come pouring out   of me

what belongs to us, something of

metal,

of my arms beyond freeway off-ramps,

     of all the places

my name has gone      and left me

                        such as perfect,

consequential     moments,       let go

in the sense of

            your nickname,            slow and meaningless,

also, numbers i don’t count to

only days    able to be   piled

onto charts,

fingertips                              left

                        of combustion,

my own dream              of horrible sailing

                             unbending, with cushion

large and open like   

                       wet hair

                     becoming plausible, noise-filled,

like your terms,     throwing sounds at

      dust or living space, easiest

to let things stay            round,

bright, or

a bit             damp

                           when they allow small boxes   to close

what it would       feel

to crumble      

             in your mouth

i’m like a seahorse

saying things

through a      radio wave

or     backwards and     outside love

with

something dry,           your hands,

nowhere to go but      toward less touching

factories turned       upside down

like China,

where   parts of us    invent

reasons

            for no longer being

           

            spoken

            held in place

            yellow

why colors       

were invented     so quickly:

                                for our hunger,

how we know

            when things           are ripe.

Day Eleven

I don't wanna stop talking           I have to keep
it going          with you talking,      I wanna see
how long this is going,                 I love

                                         sarah

I love louis, I love my kind
    
       of lots of things, mostly       terribly

in my keys   in the raw silk
you, very very                           cute
I love my phone unlocked
                     I wanna send it          sarah, love
listening to this later                 how much can I keep

talking it                 still going           
                                                      can you believe that

it's okay, I got it
                                     would last a long time

I think I could keep safe

lastly, Day Ten

looking at    pictures

feeling so          anxious

left out

& always a wanting

& always    nothing more          than going back

makes me ache     like      sign posts, alphabet, pronouns

like mommy, daddy, love

tender,  sitting inside    the outside places

accommodation,  pretty explanations

   & even when they don’t,       much more than     hunter&prey

my mouth    resembling          a child

or

            discomfort          in that

it wants         what has already been

      mentioned,                              before, only pretend houses,   

                  now, much stronger

because of places      where i slept,

weather i may           or may not have            imagined

how doodles    make everything

      lighter,   look more        like

meaning     versus   sound, how my same mouth

holds

             my r’s and l’s, confusing them

the colors only                making me

            they’re nothing like    tears, amounts of water

though they end up    erasing     

  earlier lines

places i walked           but now keep     

                               inside borders,

all the days       i’d

collect things,

gathering, as if to say

                        i once knew something

about weight

for Jp

& Day Ten

I want to say that I’m sharing.  There is darling, and there’s unfortunate.  The parts are needless, to say.  I’ve encouraged them, also.  Just falling over, just falling out of my chair.  It is completely sudden and useless.  I say things that I only mean in opposite moments.  Like stigma, but with a better punchline.   Always a certain point, and good is irrelevant.  Good is irrelevant when the material can’t echo.  Not knowing how to write them.  Wanting to be inside the car with you, the window, a way of seeing out.  Something besides myself, waiting.

and Day Ten

early wooden shapes       breathing,

something like                      combustion

  pensive charting,   notes about your fingers

                        muscles,

colors    remembering

directions i would have taken

            were i not shadowing you

and how to keep                       from ever getting there

bottom words,  cartoonish  filling up

  with   &  full   on      how i can’t

ever

hear my    isolation

   without remembering

certain times of       year, certain     calendars

so random

aimless

whatever

i could never               fit in with tumbleweeds

that put        in me

            people i forgot

            places, burning & edged in teeth

            the last way that i ever saw         a man, smiling

& swinging movements, so      deceitful

i never trusted back and forth

            until        opposites became

 the only       sentences

        i could    double check

having to stop             exactly right, here

            so as to

 not let happiness              overstay    your boundaries

without     letting go  (letting go of origins), you

      and the things we make up,

                                              we are like           buses

lots of them

in rows,     no obvious movement

just similarities             of what people assume           about us

your face         once more, too big

                       

and a lot   or   a little bit     

         of   never looking     until

    my address   can match   my name

Day Ten

in an effort  to             hold galaxies still

i would like to      sort of

                                          highlight

the difference    between

perfect     and               so necessary

the things

            that simulate          rambling

the pitches          different &   accommodating

            your body parts

not thinking            there has

    been        something

 not a recognition  &    faces

            the kind that     say things

to

      grab onto

                        other ones

            sooner,    glances that

look   precious, dueling,

            constant secrets involving

collars    & shapes

            and not eating,  partitioned mouths   in little     

sometimes    revolving

         habitats,  breathing by location

rumbling and counting down

lists are good            for

   bending      your head

            getting patterns,  snapshots

of the things

    that parent      other things      you know

   space without discernable speech

like habits, flat teeth,

       certain parts    of the body

& more important

  processing the face          into the sound

                                                of the face

unless we can    become   smaller &

  more like rocks

                        i don’t think

necessarily   grey

                                    but a lot of holding,

best described as           folks knowing,

   protection

maybe              things  living

                           under us,        a little stuck

you and i,   and all alike,     superficial

for the sake of having       something

     that everyone can see

Day Eight

heir presumptive

of rectangles  i say:    bricks

    hot suns spreading themselves thin

~

i kept notebooks filled with

            my pretend importants: weights, lines i couldn’t step on,

the places i hid books, hoping the words wouldn’t haunt me at night

dirt, that could be wet but not necessary

futility,   explanatory loveliness

i couldn’t stop,                not for   death

   or porcelain filled  trees,

   how badly everything needs to be cleaned

~

i forgot how to say     pallor, your pronoun

you, 2 and 3 years older than the oldest

  person

       i’ve ever caught   scooping    up

weeds and rock salt,    trying to be

  my clothes

your stillness,  all the showing skin

not even enough to bathe in.

~

someday, my body parts will be so far away

  from each other,    they won’t know

where the other ones  are.

Day Six (written, but not posted, on time)

i didn’t have the heart              to

        

            every time i      open

            begin the slow process

of staggering   like   the weather

so i took sharpies        &        i found people

      living in their pockets    

i was taking a break from       good

                        crazy excited

for the tips of your hair,       diving and rattling   into

length,

           for now

i was born       institutional

             along the lines of

    what it would           sound like

    to swallow   your ear.

sometimes

  i can’t   tell   the    difference

between

                              thinking and       being quiet,

you, like           daily bread

so big      when i think about            how you got here

Day Five

the best kind of   foot              to be

                                             on pavement

is hush

 going up trees

            before

   coming back down them

the way the Spanish     lie down

before they   sleep

there are trucks made

    for becoming more   like       the underneath

of table clothes,   and       just like

                         the rest of us

mixing up the differences

               between throat and sink

     a good guess will represent              body parts

like chest, legs, immaculate penmanship

all things worthy         of being inside

paper cups,

            labeled,

not to drink but for setting   places

a good    piece of advice

  the next time your hand           finds itself reaching

past  birds and snow chains and bear traps,

things that palm readings   resemble

   the will to scoop hands into your lap,

    to count yourself

by the number of umbrellas

  you would carry down the street, were you

little      

                  

                        

                            more      than a handful

     of    paper     towels

  

    

Day Four

for Maurice

one time           i had horses

millions of them

             until floating became something

small enough

                        to slip into people’s drinks,

my knees suddenly too weak

to be held onto,

too many foot noises

                        and my own wandering

            grip

people are too lonely

                                                            and mountain like

   to be neighbors

so many drinks hugging skin, slipping

   me

beneath     my seat

long hair is not even that pretty

                                    just as

a poem needs to   throw up

a little

   sometimes,

we find out the accuracy

of liquids

I am no longer     of  identity,

    better

    than grasshoppers  and  ants

these things aren’t important,

            but they’re enough to be

like sleeping     again,

of the waking up

  habits of birdlife,

suddenly,         cold bathwater

and guns lying around,

                        i could        maybe

            shoot melting snow,    running

water, dripping  

            icicles

if that ever happened,                   

i can    go         like this      and

roll right onto you,

   but i have a hard time

        keeping the letters flat

around here,

words share the properties

  of

poorly cut metal, misplaced napkins, water

  more ice cubes than one breath could reach

and that’s life without kissing, anyway,

just my face

  pushing   up

against

            your face

Day Three

“The most elementary mode of expansion occurs through one’s father, the first presence of an outsider in an infant’s life.” “But men as fathers also play roles of long-lasting importance in their babies.” In this way, each infant born is both physically and socially identified. Within a particular public, its mother and “not its father” belong. When a child is born, its “father” finds a name from practice, [the] child usually called by [a] name that it receives from its “father.” The removal of the name, however, is a time to live continued, or on her own. No loan to be well taken care of. The child can pass the name. His child, her baby, she and with her parents, and no one public about being husbandless or about a child being “fatherless.” Yet the situation is not without emotion. A child “without a father,” even though denied a necessary noting, is socially disadvantaged. Not to have a “father” is to lose the contribution, is so important, but also represented by the similarities in oneself, by its mother, social potential. To gain from the ties [made] available. To be “fatherless” is to be socially essential parts. When a married couple has a baby, the claim of the “father’s” is that it is not expressed as necessary growth, to the fetus at birth, physical between infant and “father.” When necessary, how much the “father resembles” the infant. “In the case of Sara’s “fatherless” baby, there was no public discussion about whom it resembled, although in private I heard how much it looked like its mother’s former lover.”

Day Two

a little ways back

            i remember          you

stirring, stirring

feeling odd about             fathers, money, long fences

                                                where people stick their faces

                                                            and weep downward

thinking about    wrapping up  backgrounds

in other colors

            like pink, leather, bad conclusions,

always      a kind of adjusting

always     about money, too expensive

                                                            so

i escape the bills

                               by paying them in curls of hair

or        

       erasing the parts about me  or

sending them little conversations

about weight, my fear       of

  sitting down with mirrors,     distraction,      practicing my

           

                           little girl legs, so much uncrossing involved

           

and by bills, i mean       recollection

the things i owe you

                           for                 displacement

for the chair next to me

where my name sat (my will to stomp)

for saying, break these  in half       again,

to see them      little parts        

me         

and it gets easier

                                                also, to leave

the things that get stuck   between fingers,     teeth,

                                                       two lonely people

names become the stuck in between pieces

                                    other faces

we never think about               

                                               

                                                anything,    but

hugs   and   puking   and

removing the pieces,

all the women               who don’t know me

            who are a few years older than me

and the mirrors, disgusting        like axe blades,                   i wanted to try them on

but

people keep taking off their reflections

it becomes     the only thing    i can’t look away from

near your face,

                        not always easy to     distinguish you from          

without becoming your
        little handfuls
of bones