The Process

Month: August, 2016

no pigeon

Don’t heavensplain don’t splay arms with water// like the time my mother said God becomes an answer by deductive logic// when i go put my face in model magic and feed me sandwiches and wet my lips with dirty martini ice, but after don’t touch me//

had i been thinking of things happening for a reason i would then have been saying I was grateful to know in advance that I was useless to the situation instead of finding out anyway// but I was because of the previous time//

–and in the same way that we arrive into strange clans there is no likely way to die back into them—-like your parents birthed you into one and then killed you out and back in–

i was more accustomed to people complaining first// but then everyone always is// like me// like i have been from the first day//

you only yewed outside the bedroom// did you only have diabetes in the living room.  But it was hot and you were tired & hot & tired & hot & tired & hot & tired probably//probably//probably

///////my new white outfits and your christmas stocking i fashioned from scrap upholstery.//////

everything and your spot at the table and your reverse matriarchy and your Renaissance era neck ruffle and murse and all your belongings which i considered part of my own


Wake Stop Baby

One day I had a baby cat and the next day I didn’t have a baby cat and since then I’ve fallen asleep and woken up something like seven times and maybe I’m asleep or awake
Now I dream of him sometimes sometimes I’ve dreamed of fighting for my life with a back hoe at a swingers’ party and a black haired girl that walked a bridge from England to Australia and ended up standing on stones under a waterfall and last night I was in a colosseum waiting to be called into a gathering of three hundred people who would be beating and fucking each other for fun and I was scared and scared and scared until it started and nobody did anything besides stand around and everyone was ugly. I come
Home crying sometimes on a small lady who lays me down and says it’s ok and kisses me and tells me I can eat as many dumplings as I want because she hasn’t woken up either and we’ve since been incapable of forgetting touching the cold skin of what ended up being our first born child or something of the sort even if he was a baby cat that looked like and alien liked to wear dog clothes when we put him down in the ground on the blanket I was born into which we used to wrap him in to keep him warm. The night he died I met my brother’s girlfriend and made her hula hoop for us and got her drunk like it needed to go away for her too like she had ever known us or him which she hadn’t. In Chicago we cooked and we ate and drank and thought
Something like the more we consumed the less we would think but we couldn’t eat our baby cat
Into oblivion just now I’ve gotten this I’ve
Had a time with a book and a coffee and a table and alone and it would be all well and good and separate if it didn’t end in having to poop in which case I would go to the bathroom and find myself in a stand off with the big yellow tub of litter I used to use for him saying you are just you are at this point just my squatty potty, because there is no baby cat here.