Nikita (July 2017)

I felt this delicious playfulness as I left you. 

The moon tickled me somehow. 

Your white satin shoulder. 

That childish feeling one gets when watching Baron Munchausen woo a bodiless giant lunar goddess or Gene Wilder's Wonka finally realizing that Charlie is a good boy. 

A sparkly champagne nose tickle that might as well be fairy kisses. 

Highway lampposts echo brighter yet softer. 

The heat at my back is reminding me that you love me and want to ease my pain. 

I remember I can do this. 

I am she. Jessica. She-Jessicah. 

I think less of I. 

My heart and all its arteries are played like smoking violin strings until the contortion into reality stretches toward the vast pain of others. 

Yet not hopelessly dismayed,

Rather intensely capable of making a difference. 

waiting for flowers

it's all i can think about
like taking my breath away, clenching my diaphragm, digging my nails into my palms
thinking about it
each scenario flows into the next
reality and fantasy swarm like a funneling dust devil that drives you from 2nd base.
i want what i can't have
and in my stronger moments assume that trivializing it as such easily names this feeling
comfort in cliche
but then complexity pushes my platitudes aside
what if
why not
why now
how much of this can i manage
how close to the edge do i dare
what choice do i have
the thought of it pursues me
what is it really
it is novel
like i've never fucking been here before
i risk everything to turn it aside
i risk everything to turn everything else aside and fall into it
it feels cowardly not to grab at what my heart wants
it feels cowardly to indulge in a potentially fleeting appetite
it's pumpkin time
my life is
my choices make me what
the choices are not as pressing as the way we live with them
does that hold
am i moralizing
perhaps it is a question of restructuring my life with intention
if my life keeps leaning toward this kind of longing
then it becomes of question of preserving the things i love
by introducing new boundaries that permit the things i desire
lest resentment take root, nay root deeper
i have already compromised
in the repressive reflex shame instills
right now, however
it's all i want
i waist an afternoon waiting for flowers
i hope, for my sake, they never come

an aroma: putrid, if not earthen
emitting bubbles and it slurps the dead
and the living between the dialogue
listening to the metamorphosis
its fragrant movement
noting, the alchemist observes
as the prima materia boiling
the cauldron ignites beneath
flame: blue, the fierce of fate
with a match, I strike in part
only exhaled, painful inhale,
a reluctant plying with consciousness
recovered apnea breath sipping shallow
each day again
with them I die
time of infinite pulse by the elements
to return a decomposing soul
for an oubliette made rather flame
awaiting vessel
a cold, dark in the unturned, left memory
shadowy in molding lichen musky chaos
to syncopated rhythm

You occupy peeling paint shadows
in the corners of my mind
bent by sills collecting the sacred dust
of secrets long since held and forgotten
lighted by bourbon soaked lamps
of black iron and thick, hexagonal glass issuing
amber light through a small, antique window
held open by the flashlight we brought
to let in the rare, gracious breeze
carrying the song of an historic street.
We press into each dark promise,
the heat of night unforgiving
like the choice we make;
raucous waves of voices raised in transcendent praise
thankful for the night they will soon forget
to Dionysus they clamor
and their worship covers our indulgence
at her altar.
We do not choose our calamity,
but join in the song that was ever sung of us:
somewhere a trumpet
then a horn takes its place
soon the stomping gives us rhythm;
we pause into into into far into the eyes of the other
deeper we scope where we dared not before
lest we, brought to this temptation, fall hungry,
but having embraced the inevitable we plunge.
Another corner of your mouth invites mine.
You whisper words from 100 years ago:
If I knew that this would be the last time I would hear your voice,
I would take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again.
Then words brand into my neck with each hot breath,
new words never before spoken or repeated,
the glass house forsaken.
Your well-worn fingers are nimble and sure
never misplaced, ever finding their aim
an exploration long since rehearsed, though never on flesh.
You reach for dark corners tucked under tapered cotton
and find each crevice conforms to your touch.
A shriek of drunken laughter sings the descant of my moan.
This room is ours;
the wooden floor swells and squeaks as we spin
against the gray wall taking turns to carve the feast,
when the light catches your eyes my hungry heart pauses
taking you in and
exhales the free sigh of an impulse foretold,
now fulfilled.
To resist was then.
My bare foot finds a low, heavy chair
long since draped with white southern linen
over a lonely chaise in a forsaken room,
it holds my weight as I fold into yours.
We amuse the ghosts with our vibrant pulse
burning out what was left of our sustenance;
nothing pleases the dead more than
the foolishness of the living
for they covet our capriciousness
as they regret the risks they forsook.
I hear my name on your lips and am reborn
Cassiopeia
Cybol
Callisto
your hands forget their gentleness
and press into my shoulder pulling and pushing
my gaze further still,
the smell of liquor on your breath
fogs the look in your eyes I may never know
at the moment you release your soul to my domain,
I remember my promises, though some ought be called cowardice,
and see the world before me as it ever was
without you.

10JUNE14.15:11

billboards with photographs of people living lives that don't exist
set in staged rooms by crews of people you never see
are specters, ghosts
there's nothing real about them
ive no human connection to them
and they could be dead
perpetually living
but theyre not living truth
theyre not living anything real
theyre selling something
but theyre ghosts
which mean people who covet the lives falsified on these bilboards
would rather be dead

which means everyones afraid of their own life
somehow detached
theyd rather have their existence affirmed by what they're supposed
to be living
and wanting
and made happy by
and buying
to justify their existence
to nullify the question
to dull the pain
theyre walking around barely fitting in o
somebody elses
life that they want
some celebrity
some picture of happiness
some escape from the angst

feeling less individual on purpose
escaping the very truth of their existence
that they are in fact unique
in order to blur and blend and disappear
so that they can feel more vital
i mean it's fucking tragic
like the woman walking past me now
in pants she never shouldve purchased
because some fucking woman told her that they made her look pretty
when it was just a pretty woman wearing ugly pants
and an ugly woman wearing ugly pants is

tragic and then there are the individuals
that express themselves with oddity
clustered together with other oddities
maybe they feel a little less alone
because they know how lonely they are
they dont have to lie to themselves all day
i don't know

maybe im just feeling dark and cynical because we're fighting again
because were believing something about each other that may or may not be true
or were doubting something about each other that may or may not be true

he believes that i intentionally emasculate him
and i believe he intentionally controls me
when in reality
my biggest fear is being controlled
and apparently his biggest fear is being emasculated
so we protect it
we guard it from the people that love us
that have the deepest most intimate access
to our vulnerability and our fear
and the price of living that near to another person
is that you blame them
for the fears youve been carrying around with you your whole life
and you cough up all this evidence
all these
minute
hour
day
month
year
decade
proofs
that we use the fears of the ones we love
to protect the fears that most haunt us
in our own souls
and i think thats the reason for the roller coaster
that were up and down all the time
because its bliss living so near another human
when you can trust that human
when you can trust yourself
and your boundaries
and your reasons
and your goals
and your hopes

and we made a beautiful child
and shes going to inherit all of our bullshit
and maybe do it a little better
and thats all we get to wish for her
and tell ourselves that in all our failings and
all the moments we let slide by
all the plans we make that fail
all the hiding of contempt that she sees anyway
all the intention
all the pressure
all the pride
you just hope you love her well enough
to endure it
to grow beyond it
to evolve
to make something more of our genetic encoding
our predetermined-ness and
so i go to work
and im thankful
that i don't want
what theyre selling

Forget Your People

All your robes are fragrant with myrrh and aloes and cassia;
from palaces adorned with ivory
the music of the strings makes you glad.
Daughters of kings are among your honored women;
at your right hand is the royal bride in gold of Ophir.

Listen, O daughter, consider and give ear:
Forget your people and your father's house.
The king is enthralled by your beauty;
honor him, for he is your lord.
The Daughter of Tyre will come with a gift,
men of wealth will seek your favor.

All glorious is the princess within her chamber;
her gown is interwoven with gold.
In embroidered garments she is led to the king;
her virgin companions follow her and are brought to you.
They are led in with joy and gladness;
they enter the palace of the king.

Your sons will take the place of your fathers;
you will make them princes throughout the land.
I will perpetuate your memory through all generations;
therefore the nations will praise you for ever and ever.
Psalm 45.8-17

Depression Soup

Start with a pot that has a hole in the bottom
Throw it on an erratic flame
Controlled by the fickle fates.
Build your base with ample tears
Add salt to taste.
If you spill the salt,
Better to rub it into your wounds
Than to throw it over your shoulder;
Luck is no lady tonight.
Chop up your hopes and dreams
Toss them in the air and pray
They find their way.
Open the door to your heart
And take a long, cruel stare at what remains:
The selfish savor of old pain,
Sweet kisses gone dry on your cheek,
Bone-in memory with dulled fatty forgetfulness,
Dumplings of broken promises your mother made for you
Abandoned peels of overripe resentment your father left.
In a depressions soup, it all goes in the pot.
The flavor is of your own making, no matter who you blame.
It will never sustain you
Or feed those you love.
But still, you must drink it.
If it starts to get dry, just cry.