Landscape

there are mountains on my wrists

for every corrosive spillage of greed.

there are mountains on my thighs

for every bad angled reflective surface.

there are mountains on my stomach

for every unreturned meal.

there are mountains on my scalp

for every entity reaffirming worthlessness.

It takes earthquakes to bring mountains down—   (my chest wheezes in tectonic plates)

Egotistical Egoist

I wake to lingering warnings:

egotistical egoist.

Suffocated between insomnia and sleeping pills

I must be dreaming about you.

It pisses me off,

your lyrical subconscious presence far too elevated for your pathetic reality.

It pours, flooding words escaping my cracked hands

and I wonder if I can recreate you long enough to edit you into

revisable.

In nightmares, too, you tease:

waking in cold sweat and

embarrassed regret: egotistical

egoist

too good to waste.

I can’t pretend

to masquerade roles

I have no script for.

Standing in the ballroom: centered and focused

will not get me to light the chandelier.

A soft spoken promise lies dormant in my right hand

so tightly clutched

I wonder if it lives still.

I’ll flex open these muscles on the day of

reckoning

when stars detach from their strings–

stage collapses.

I’ll take on paper wings,

sprouting from its cave, this promise

producing a gust so fearful

tables turn upside down.

Then: centered and focused

I’ll gaze upward.

Stage direction:

The chandelier drops elegantly.

Emergency Room

I’ve always played the patient, never the surgeon. This operating table, shining
squeaky clean, has held down thousands of bodies like mine for the same purpose:
dissection.
(I know, too. I know, too)
Sedated, cut, torn, pulled, rolled, flipped, excavated, measured, colored, weighed, scanned, rejected, approved, stamped, flagged.
I exist as a gift to superior humanity- banality- a sub caption in social sciences.
(I know, too. I know, too)
A living sample of racism, classism, colonialism, sexism—
Prometheus’s –isms, eternally carried up the capitalist hill,
falling off glass cliffs, feeding social reproduction
with my gut and womb.
This waiting room is packed with whispers of change,
at the blink and beep of my number—never my name—
let me call upon the supernovas of knowledge birthing in my travelled feet to say:
I am not ill, cancel my appointment.
(I know, too. I know, too)

three sisters and a cow

Three sisters buried a cow in their graveyard. The cow had grown ill and miserable, heightening the family’s misfortune as the last of their animals prepared to depart.

The first sister stroked the cow’s neck every night, in hopes that the muscles would feel loose and the cow would look up to life instead of down to death.

The second sister travelled far every dawn, to the clearest and greenest of meadows, collecting the best grass in the land. If the cow ate well, she prayed, it would remember life on earth as a pleasant one, and would make an effort to stay.

The third sister remained in the kitchen all day, cleaning pots and sharpening knives.

“All cows are meat,” she would hum to herself as the water boiled, “one down, two to go.”

the myth of dying suns

When very old and very warm, the wizened sun will walk to the edge of space, where hungry black holes await,and wet his blazing toes on the deepest pool in all of the milky way.

The black holes will sing a song of death, a hymn of doom to descend silence on all fears of dying slowly and forgotten.

You’ve lived well
and you’ve lived long,
though now forsaken you’ve spent your time on the shores of Venus, comforting Mars, the Earth will thank you without the need of a shrine.

The sun sleeps.