mark’s face split like a papaya, pulped, the pavement eager to accept another’s ripe skin.
bruised. rinsed fruit. a polynesian boy screams go home haole, the lights of waikiki twinkle
in applause. how violence begets violence. a flood or lineage of reciprocity: this vast circle,
tide pool draining into itself, showing us a face we’ve become all too accustomed with: our own,
deserving, meaning history is the strangest kind of loop pedal. legend has it
when the white man came to oahu the trees stopped producing fruit; sugarcane, toothbreaker;
i guess this is the legend or some version of it: winded, the long howl,
unravelled nowhere cradling garbage like woman I have hands swallowed feeling week Wide strange God bought wounded pink that's winter thinking Alleluia, somebody's hills are peaceful anything yellow will work for wanting the Sunday river good one love on the kind bus For spill of diamond, refrigerated used glass STOP you're happy forever wake when the light starts running cloud mouth stupid bed rush he can't open the day or the door with a real face body forever little girl in the wanted always i was Like shit things splintered let the train find heaven Stay beautiful Already Nobody's crazy first leaves through ritual death the ritual daughter rinse the damage endless Milk sleep i YES ran For the likelihood of moonlight
various notes on the subject of confession by scheherazades, literature
Literature
various notes on the subject of confession
you upstart thing i love you lie licker, old dog you lay down by the fire for so long but got up again. I missed you while you slept. I brushed your hair. one ghost in the greek yogurt good heron i was with you then and now at the end of the universe i will piss in a cup i will kiss the last dust i will hold you very tightly say to you that you worked hard and that i love you. i will tend to the temple. where are you going, babylon willow tree can i follow to the arid girl paradise Yes —to the root of it where the moss grows soft i am waiting for you like a river this is our last time being alive i want to lie down by the fire again No — i walk in your imprint always you know me better than anyone, robot i know you best of all when I stumble i see you in the glory of heaven washing dishes i want to lie
quarantine is a frigid word by successwithhonor, literature
Literature
quarantine is a frigid word
sterile. metallic. i watch the white spires stalagmite the parking lot of queen’s medical,
masked creatures emerging and disappearing again into the mountain’s tyvek belly. decon.
negative air. the plexiglass stained with fingerprints and salt. i can’t help but think of
extraterrestrials, that some bikeridden savior will slip out and show us another useless
miracle. flight. alchemy. something performative, eternal. the long applause. a comedic
history ending only in tragedy. the problem with angels is that they are always returning
to a home that isn’t here, trying to become more like god and less like us
the opposite of wanderlust, ii by blanketings, literature
Literature
the opposite of wanderlust, ii
because she’s still wearing her diamond earrings
and they still bloom
reflections in flour-coated sunsets
in pre-dawned hospital windows at dusk and beyond
they don’t come off
obtrusive and quiet and every spark
bright where her eyes haven’t been
lately she’s not all there so i should be
holding on tightly
because her hands are battlefields
her eyes are blizzards
and she ate half a scoop of strawberry ice cream
just last week it was just the other day
she said my name
because i can see every jolt
her heart now beats
tsunamis that slam her ribcage and there’s no higher ground
because she still sits up in b
my lips lack
the proper suture
so I spill
an endless
unrequested
torrent
awash
in every
earnest declaration
every reason
for my
still
and you are drowning
in these casual adorations
shying from these
unattended hands
which flap and shake
which all too often
take your own
or try to turn your mouth
toward mine
and you have been
so patient
with these
tiresome portraits
that I’ve painted
with the humming
oscillation
all along
but thousands of these
clumsy words
can’t make your blood
sing my same song
for a long time i've wanted to say something of hope,
that tickle me pink folly; bandaid on the cataclysmic
knees of pandora, burning scapegoat, gilded question.
whatever it was that waltzed through the porcelain jar
knew already of wreckage, salivation, a whet-stemmed
glass piercing the feathered breast of some antediluvian
beast. here the map says nothing of subtraction: siren-songed,
salted meat, an ocean of both distance and destination. refraction,
anachronism. science
because this house is made of
crumbling blackthorn wood; because
when i fell to my knees
i just lay down. what a spring
this is - it’s ash in my mouth already.
so what about this says growth?
you are not a messiah, wandering
for forty days in the desert; you don’t
have any sin to ignore. i drank
from the cup, i bore the fruit;
when you are kind to the devil
what do you gain from it?
everything is about love, and
you don’t see that yet. that’s okay.
we’ll be okay. with the sun beating
down, another man’s god
in our mouths; we’ll be okay.