Burnt
9/25/2012
years ago,
i was
marinated
in a bitter
liquid
that bit
at my
brain.
it left
sores,
now
scarred
but still
itchy,
festering,
&
infected.
i was
breaded
in
baking soda
then
dipped in
vinegar,
just
to make
the Devil
laugh.
happy
to
oblige.
before,
i was
just
bleached.
now i
am burnt.
my skin
peels back
to reveal
newborn
flesh,
weak
&
succeptible,
exposed
&
inviting
all
bacterium
in.
the tests
all come
back
inconclusive,
my diagnosis
cunningly
evades
idenitification,
like a well-read
shape-shifting
chameleon,
an instinctual
master of
disguise.
I.
I.
Infinite Infinitesimal Infinities by artistic-foolishness, literature
Literature
Infinite Infinitesimal Infinities
Infinite Infinitesimal Infinities
Everything is infinite; only we aren't. Our inconsequential lives don't allow us the time; we parcel it out individually, as we see fit. A slice to art, a slice to sex, a slice to words, a slice to thought, a slice to cycling trivialities. And no matter how many slices we serve ourselves, there is never enough and we never are full. So we hunger, but there is no mercy; we never starve.
Words are infinite. We, as humans, never tire in our experimentation, twisting and wringing out old verbs and adjectives for new meaning, and usually finding it, weaving tales of wonder for all to gawk at on our looms of drea
sometimes the dark is unforgiving,
just the universe and you.
among the constellations,
you're just a star,
there's no world outside of you.
money cannot be stacked
high enough to reach the heavens,
money cannot erase time
or buy time or stop time.
there is no ctrl+z,
no gift receipt,
for life or our time here.
when we die our slate is white
but while we live, the world is green.
we auction off our feelings
and hope someone will know what it means.
but meanwhile, we are tied to earth,
our money our worth,
our savior our anchor.
i never knew empty space
could weigh so much,
i never knew that dreams
could be a crutch.
i'
I knew a girl once, she wore her bones on the outside.
every caress felt to her like a car crash.
strong to the eyes, weak to the touch- the downside
of building your walls out of straw, hoping not to collapse.
And when she smiled, she smiled like shattered glass.
And when she didn't, the glass cut her cheeks
so that, without having to wait for the feeling to pass
she could smile ear to ear, though slightly oblique.
And when she kissed, she kissed like a splinter,
burrowed deep in your soul with no plans for departure.
You won't pry her out for fear you might miss her.
She'll hang you to dry, but still play the martyr.
Though she might kil
she writes in the empty spaces between the words
between the world,
world-weary fingers and toes and pengrips, knives
letter-opener swords, typewriter machetes
arm-wrestling with fate and the universe on a piece of paper,
computer screens painting faces with colors
stained-glass hyphenated hue-tint-shade glory
she waits.
she is patient.
she's their patient, doctors and nurses
emergency room, operating room, clinical study
stethoscope children
they wish fervently to cut her open.
her insides will be beautiful, they say,
beautiful and pink and full of words.
unwords, she says.
she writes on her skin, on napkins and paper bags
i
dearest dead,
i can taste your death in the dregs of my tea (tea is such a melancholy thing).
when i see your stark beauty plagiarized on canvas, when i leave 3 candles lit in constant vigil, when i remember the soft rhythm of your careful footsteps down this now abandoned hall, the sudden collection of dust on my organs is almost palpable and the delicate toothpicks supporting outward appearances snap about halfway to broken.
it takes my breath away to realize how much i miss you.
i feel it deep in my ribcage as my everything collapses onto an ohsovulnerable chest. no wonder they call it a rib cage because