The Process

Tag: poem

Legs, Hair, Sight

I touch her face long and think, make sure you know her nose bridge in case you go blind out of nowhere.  The thought is also to spend some time wearing eye patches in case one eye is lost, and I need to be prepared for the worst.  Nothing is wrong with my eyes, yet.  Just slight near-sightedness.  But you can never be too sure.  Then there were so many people on those stilt-y canes today, lacking feet or legs or whatever, and I will have to prepare for that in case, too.  It’s a feeling I’ve always had in my gut that someday I would have only one leg.  And then so many weaves in everyone’s hair around the city, and I should prepare to have one, too, in case my hair goes awry, and I can’t manage it properly anymore.  The idea is to be ready for anything, even if it means morphing into unrecognizable territory.

I think I’ll be least mad about the leg, since I’ve expected to lose it the longest.  Then the hair, which I like but don’t need, per se, and then the vision.  I would really prefer to go deaf than blind.  However, it’s beyond my control.  It’s a bit weird about missing my hair more than my legs, maybe.  I’m not so sure, actually, because hats.

When the Legs Won’t Go and Shit Like That

When the legs won’t go, I lie
down to the warm cantaloupe air, nose
piqued and peaked and peeked at
the I-struck-juice after taking out the seeds, and the fruit leaves
its syrup, wipe chin, up to and including eyebrow.  And then
the toes that hover up over down, hot gravel toes, tendons glued
like Thetis is my bedspread, holding tight, leaving feeble, and
I think of nothing–which is the troubles–and the skin ripples up
to melon air because it’s the obvious thing, as I am here, noticing

it and her and down gravity, first just molecular
dance, then condensation to syrup and the way we adhere to it, breeze
over the ankle, tired tendon, but then there’s the perfume again, slow head,
Thetis let go, and shit like that.

And You Had Talked on the Phone

-Insomuch that the not having creates the want-

and want for what

unlike what can I want &

you had been a partially solved or a

substrate or a revisited variable, always revisited like marked

right wrong and that guilt and circumlocution.  Or just relax.  Undarwinlike

comes to mind or stop fire dissolves into the low visibility, low for fog

such thick vapor like anxious breathing could cloud up against

icy future and would make present-living instrument only or mayday

which allows for snap judgement.  As in the not-going-to-have and its

spawn, going to want, as it appears–as the need burns up white//

breaks fever// doused in, on.

No Ray

It’s not bad to have been periwinkle

all night, when all other is dead out of the body in the non-world or the

world, and some are missing and some are together, conscious of conscious or

unconscious, unspeakable actions to speak of or unactable spokens to act on…and

then the hunger, too, the hunger on me and how I’ve always

appreciated it for the clarity and desire like potential energy is

exciting in its many possibilities until it picks one.  And I have gone out

in a poof of dousing, as I have come to know it, or I have also had the pulling one

in which I am a fish almost always big enough until morning.  But the pinkness

is funny out the window now, reminds me of a time when I thought God was real and would have

spelled it with a dash, you know, the way a child is powder.  And I want to stay.  Less

egregious this idea of a day nap, now, maybe take it, maybe stay, maybe poof, maybe fish.  Close

eyes to the sound of “No!  No rray!  Sit up, you no ray, prease, no sreep now.”  Despite skeptical wake,

saffron air clear in nose opens eyes, stay, no ray, no sreep.

Cigarette Woman

It smells so good, shampoo and cigarette smoke…like comfort and wanting it all at once.  I have found it hard to part with a good smelling stranger.  They tend to walk away prematurely.  I want to say, “Come back.  I haven’t had a chance to write your scent.”  But I let them go.  Scents come back at their leisure, in this life, which keeps things interesting, especially during times of emotional plateau.  Newports.  Fame by Lady Gaga.  Old Spice body wash.  Tobacco.  Pussy.  Red wine.  Toast.  It’s less cyclical than woven.


What I’m saying is I saw my reflection in a window, and I was a dog.  I was me, but I looked into my eyes and then at my face and said, “That’s not me, and what are these boots for?  I have feet, and that is all–these are so silly.”  And then I walked in the dark and thought, “I must be god,” and maybe it’s because I stopped believing in myself or needed someone else to believe in me; I’m not sure.  But then what I thought is, “I’m doing OK with the system I created”…that which is the begging for time, which makes it pass.  When you want to climb over the days, they loom longer, and there’s simply no way; you need a minute so bad that your chest feels like demolition, so you don’t get it.  And then this: oh, guy on the bus, you make me puke with your shrimp snack scent.  And it won’t, then, dispel.  And here I’m praying for a morning breath kiss from my girl when we wake from a night of drinking and she says, “wait–let me brush my teeth,” but I just laugh and steal all the kisses anyway.  But have I learned nothing?  The way to get around it is to pray the shrimp man will stay or to stop praying.  It might be me, anyway, the prayee, you know?  Or the pray prey.  What it is is nonsense, this needing game.