maps and poetry

rough draft 23

I don’t want to try the variations –
no that isn’t quite right, it never comes out quite right
it isn’t interesting, I know I know,
maybe if I try it will work
he likes to look at strangers and pretend that everyone is a casse-tete
no one cares about junkies
he likes to call me and he likes to stand beside my bed, he never sits,
he thinks life is a map, and that we can find out the directions
they are geometrical patterns
his shirt won’t stop getting in the way pleasestop
he says he thinks he thinks that he can make it new again.


Ask me nobody ever remembers their questions
I like to look in the mirror, don’t you,
I want to make sure I’m still here
I shriveled into the
my fingers curled tight into fists
they burrowed into my stomach

they want to know what I am
is your skin designer made where did you buy your eyes no no no these aren’t the questions I wanted
I’m tired
the popcorn munching man drools on my feet

you can sit it’s okay
he doesn’t want to sit
he just wants to prove I’m real he can do this through science
he adjusts his glasses and wipes spittle from the corners of his mouth
his fingers stutter down my skin I just need to do a detailed survey
he won’t stop clearing his throat just stop clearing your throat

occasionally I think about the time you curled into your mind
and I had to pry your fingers from your eyes
and you spit on my feet
not really sure how to feel about it
you bit your lower lip and hissed
I’d like to curl inside your mind and disappear, I tell you this over coffee, and you smile

he wants to stay
yes okay
his drool puddles on my stomach, he wipes his mouth on my neck, checkchecking boxes
if it’s scientific

do you ever want to subtract your emotions – take them out and file the fevers for a later date, shoved in a mental card catalog, no, i’m not sure how to feel about it, when I see you alone I want to crush my head between my hands.


in my idle days I sit at the back of my mind and eat the overlapping maps
the charm is in the disappearing act

they know your name, at night they tuck their feet and
when they talk about you – no,
I’ve never understood the appeal

do you feel regret not particularly it’s never interested me

qu’est-ce qu’il y a
the demand is for your head, your recklessness

now, pause.


perhaps this is what satisfaction feels like, a slow
static stutter rattle
and I do not – no
perhaps if there were no people
I would
and take this into my feet and let them
beat my head, a Tin Drum sitting atop my shoulders
perhaps this is what satisfaction feels like


rough. rough. draft.

I need to find the answer
it is buried between your teeth

how do the dead know how to float? it’s the final trick

I’m going to lose you, it won’t do no harm (it’s better this way, I think)
dirty south got charm, when you call my name it is too long it hangs on your tongue and collapses between my knees

I’m sorry.


ifItryitwillwork – when the old woman sits on my chest I want to fall in love again
she drools down my chest
I don’t want her to leave she likes to cry in the bathtub filling it with sweat
she won’t stop scratching my hands
pleasestopstop when I look in the mirror I see a half devoured person
she sat beside me on the bus and asked for directions
she slid underneath my shoes and licked my legs
it stopped.


I hate the cold. I recently went to a small bar, and an old man approached me (he looked like the caricature of a prospector which was intriguing.)
“How you doing? You’re from the south too right?”
“Just killing time during the layover is all.”
“Let me give you a piece of advice – always wear a hat.”

14. or I’m done with this bulllshit

I lost my head shut it up under the house
shoved dirt inside the mouth to stop it from screaming at night
the crowd wants to see
they are crying for the headless wonder
their fingers are shutting closedopenclosedopen
if you touch me
I will fill your mouth with dirt – everyone knows fingers tumbling down my neck
my rapist broke my collarbone do you want to touch it?
for a conversation I will take your eyes place them inside my neck this house fucking kills me
he burned my neck – he wanted to talk, are you scared
my sister said I never learned respect
that’s fine
if you want I can burn for you.


“I can’t cover for you at work today.”
“Well, I guess I’ll have to resort to divining who can via cat entrails.”
“Are you a real person?”
“I think so?”

If you touch me I will burn your hands
first we will talktalktalk
you will shudder
I want to drag the cicada off your arm
you will try to pull the Mississippi river off my spine
tomorrow I will talk to you in a different language
you will pull me back to bed
I’d like to find the gaps between your vertebrae your heart shakes in my hands
we will talktalktalk
I don’t want you to shudder
you will kiss my shoulder
I will rip the cicada off your arm
you will kiss the stack of books on my ribs and shoulder and bite the head off the crow
I won’t flinch.

vita contemplativa – homo faber died he broke his burned inside one of the Apollos, when he died the scientist sat on his hands and decided to never make anything again, it was the shortest funeral.