work work work
i am procrastinating...
also working on two new poems... ish. i don't know. i may scrap one of them... we'll see.
I lie buried in this bright red down
While a child star shrieks in some other room
“Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!”
So I rise and sit at my desk
And stare at these things I have collected.
The rabbit pierced by an arrow
And a sword on its way. “Dead bunny,” it reads,
With a big looping heart. And faces in front of wolves
As dogs rip apart a cow. The stub of a train ticket from the seventh of October,
Taped against the wall. These pieces, and that box full of letters and pictures
Of birds and people and us.
And now there is trash-
An empty juice box, a crumpled tissue, the discarded shells of letters.
....?
In the morning it is the difficulty I find in waking-
And how my blurry vision lasts so much longer than it did
Yesterday, or last year.
In the afternoon it is the heat in my face
And at night it is the numbness in my fingers and toes. They tingle now-
ice pricks against my nails and the whorls of my finger-pads.
I wake in the pre-dawn hours
And my clammy hands shake and shudder
while I breathe in soft sobs
and tear at plastic pills with my teeth.
until they lie ripped to shreds around me
And still I am not fixed.
On the third day it is the prick of pain
And the smooth separation of flesh by metal.
Sometimes I imagine the muscle and fat parting before the needle-
Like Moses and the Red Sea
The needle lies on my bedside table. Resting
As though it belongs beside the red alarm clock
And the clear plastic glass.
I should throw it away-
It has already buried itself within my skin.
My blood talks to it, and it replies.
Now my blood thins, and I feel its quickened rushing.
The colors are brighter but they lack depth.
A glass ball lit up by the window-light, blue seeping into pale green. A tree outside,
It lives white and brown against the tall blue sky.
The bark peels off - the white becomes skeletal
And the tree becomes death.
I sit waiting for the next needle
While the tree shivers in the wind
And the clouds stretch like ribbons
Shutting out the sky.
also working on two new poems... ish. i don't know. i may scrap one of them... we'll see.
I lie buried in this bright red down
While a child star shrieks in some other room
“Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!”
So I rise and sit at my desk
And stare at these things I have collected.
The rabbit pierced by an arrow
And a sword on its way. “Dead bunny,” it reads,
With a big looping heart. And faces in front of wolves
As dogs rip apart a cow. The stub of a train ticket from the seventh of October,
Taped against the wall. These pieces, and that box full of letters and pictures
Of birds and people and us.
And now there is trash-
An empty juice box, a crumpled tissue, the discarded shells of letters.
....?
In the morning it is the difficulty I find in waking-
And how my blurry vision lasts so much longer than it did
Yesterday, or last year.
In the afternoon it is the heat in my face
And at night it is the numbness in my fingers and toes. They tingle now-
ice pricks against my nails and the whorls of my finger-pads.
I wake in the pre-dawn hours
And my clammy hands shake and shudder
while I breathe in soft sobs
and tear at plastic pills with my teeth.
until they lie ripped to shreds around me
And still I am not fixed.
On the third day it is the prick of pain
And the smooth separation of flesh by metal.
Sometimes I imagine the muscle and fat parting before the needle-
Like Moses and the Red Sea
The needle lies on my bedside table. Resting
As though it belongs beside the red alarm clock
And the clear plastic glass.
I should throw it away-
It has already buried itself within my skin.
My blood talks to it, and it replies.
Now my blood thins, and I feel its quickened rushing.
The colors are brighter but they lack depth.
A glass ball lit up by the window-light, blue seeping into pale green. A tree outside,
It lives white and brown against the tall blue sky.
The bark peels off - the white becomes skeletal
And the tree becomes death.
I sit waiting for the next needle
While the tree shivers in the wind
And the clouds stretch like ribbons
Shutting out the sky.