Find me

Nowadays I'm over here instead.

Below are some poems from a long ago NaPoWriMo.

Below that, I can't remember.

may.22-23.2011

           

                       

                        often, i am not thinking  about my family

and then           becoming a monster, both of us

creative,

              a mother once pausing

            with bad thoughts

that stick

  in relation to whiter things,

what we consider teeth

children don’t know about wind    or leaning

but they            get to feel their own personal weight

                        & we can put more sections in

                                    that involve my adult steps behind yours

                        our shoulders humming together

            it is not easy to  start thinking about    gravity

            &         what it wants,

picture  rows of feet and how

the height of a body

makes pavement a lot less

     of traveling

it’s this kind of  stacking that

i wish i knew,

how to weep

or at least

pile myself big enough

to hurt people

                  often          i am      proud of the things

            that come out

            but forget about

their leaving

so i       eat unusual foods

outside

                        or near grass

so that i can

                    feel different

toward you

when we’re in the same room

you remind me of

that [one] time

you were so good,

  you said

what

         about          my family

            or my name, once  inhabited

 by little balls of light

                        & i said

let’s be more like shoulders

                        i would never kick anyone

            in the ribs

                        but only because

                                    i cannot reach them

may.22.2011

 I apologize ahead of time        for  all   the

photographs that have               never

                                                been written

for the limbs

we talk about           frequently

bcuz

we have a lot of them

&

they can’t distinguish each other

little categories, sure         

but just

blowing into empty space

           

            slowly

& it’s been a           very

                                    complicated

                               relationship

with my

                                                anything really weighing

on my

                                    last time i honestly can’t

really start meeting folks,    how i relate to mine

the only way     i can     ever      really         see you

           

            through displacement,

you, or glasses of old cabernet

you, or windows with dirty hand signals

you: (a little bit) tricky long-distance

from/manipulation/or/that time we knew about walking home

i would sleep

                        /if i were     something else/

stop being fooled by

                        constant breathing

so i could

  harness

my

    peripheries

in getting lost

                            if i could just be

                            OK

                            and

                            sleepy

but instead,

i am not moving at all until

the week before i am                comfortable,

since there are things          i just can’t say,

but what if i just    deep down

remove the     years ago parts,

            and remember the good fortune

            standing between us

            and what it looks like

            to be a daughter

            when i finally think i can

            stick my hearing around

            the corners of your mailbox

            or tell you about

            the risk of changing topics

            or

            the fucking conversations

            you might compare me to

            if my ears became bobcats

            and i stopped saying thank you

but first, i wanted to

                        get all this down,

so i took my right leg

and then i took my left one

then my right

She wanted second-hand smoke the way his mouth said “hi”

the ocean is not a good idea. is around 6 years old. is full of freckles.

the ocean embarrasses me. low-income, squirming.

makes me feel different around people in tshirts, with long legs,

or else if i pretended to write a letter

and it only spilled out, raw sewage all over,

on the airplane’s descent. the vulnerable anthropologist. 

the ocean is confidently predicted by my embarrassing hunger.

the way we made pretend ocean using ropes and finger-sized breath. 

an embarrassment of riches.  (yes, i did say many…

            but i retextured all the little swimming holes.  the fish,

held in place.  movement and the needles, a sewing that makes thread get thicker.  time

becomes a decoration, or a paperweight.  the ocean unravels into paper, just the same,

children splashing at the water basin, the enamel continuous and shoulder-like.

there’s a way you can rent water for these kinds of things,

said one child dancing on cold circles, ignited and strands dripping, pulled.

the entire scene shifts and focuses on one tiny anchor,

keeping the boat

in place, fifty men caught pushing their least

favorite months into the burning engine.

there’s never been a water cooler more easily filled.

if i could step into it, or you, like so many before me,

putting water on my face with my palms

laid out together as if to tell you

i like the weight, the water pulling our hair

into thick globs of rope, infinite fish,

the one child still under her umbrella,

listening to the circles blown out of your mouth.

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