March 2, 2010
Return nothing and nothing is happening.
We are invariably in love, with people, undeniably invented, by cats.
It’s not hard, but it’s true.
Eleven days and eight hours,
I’m hoping it will make me smarter, acting like nothing happened to the
smell of summer night, the bricks and then the red and then the fugue and then the fighting,
For esteem, for someone younger, smarterprettier, we are all in doubt
it’s too hot, in my esteem, to think.
Your turn, now.
Give me some furtive gutless compliment.
I’ve been doing it all wrong,
collecting rain drops on one side of my tongue, while the rest smacks on,
not knowing that the other half is tasting,
in the guttural drawl
the honey of an abandoned mind
as if it were coal,
Past the toothbrushes traded with the divine,
you thanked nothing, and confused the immaculate with a season
Stripped to the waist, a weary voice
silenced, after laughing,
a confrontation in a crystal dish, full at dawn, with the chrism
of tepid longing–
a balance you have struck, with passion,
which beckoned you once,
past the bathroom sink, to the lake,
to catechize yourself, with the usual litany:
Are you tired from all the hurt you have caused?
Now you’ve discovered your foot is bleeding
you’ve looked into it,
and seen, in its precious albumins, here, a crater,
here, an inhabitable plain,
you would like to close it up again, for good
do you find that it makes you surrender
your fathomless frontier assemblage,
and an electrical storm that will go on for centuries?
And have you considered, for even a moment
the tenebrous, arcane consonance,
tightly concealed universe?
We are all thirsty,
so give us some fragments,
Two volumes at least
before a sinking cipher
approaches these spindly gates
like murmurs of Love’s Surgery
loves calling her, dead.
It all dissolves into a vision of you
sitting parked at Chinatown Express
on a cloudy Friday,
climbing the ladder
from the wolf in my lap,
who went forward from me into fractal perfection
who went forward to
casually observe the surroundings,
sheltered from a finer truth
into majesties untold,
where, ever, he will say,
but you were so close.’
The Huntress Sings a Lullaby
after Torrey-Bell Edwards
Into dawn, crude pale trinkets
sealed night, galactic blue, as
undone limbs, clamped, hard-won,
alerting, minutes later, the child-twitch
in advance, corrected,
under its own weight.
Forced by eyelids, absently panicked
we laid heavily, like this,
in stuporous gravity
my unuttered song,
cradled into unrelenting motion,
the inert, gathered fingers,
close to the idle hips, head rolled back,
holding hollow, the circles
of something to kill,
while I waste time.
Too many devils these days, without a shovel, or a map
that won’t tell you something different, anyway,
As you were corkcrewing, with a warm burn,
and a wide berth of error,
You fought for ethics,
You fought for your beliefs! and systems!
So discrete was your identity,
our eyes would have to evolve in order
to view a secret society, so powerful, so
Thank you for thinking on it.
Mermaid, you are not.
Lion, you are not.
but somebody’s vision, and son
and you grew up somewhere,
over the dessicated smells of pulsing jugulars, warm vodka, work and coffee,
Do you feel that your every device is mutating, perhaps,
into a better shape, for holding a book?
Isn’t there a canned response to everything, crude and oblivous?
Neutralize that feeling!
There’s a backwards reeling sensation you get,
without triggering any sadness at all,
over the causal topography of your
Isn’t it the nicest?
Isn’t it always obliged enough to accept defeat, announced in concretions, otherwise sparkling?
Your emotional borders, your terrains are so remote and complicated, you say everything categorically, “No, this! Never, that.”
But you bother to stay alive
Within a hive of disarticulated spasms,
increasing, forever, in pressure,
deepening, without thirst.
I get pangs of it, sometimes.
Marisa Prietto is a Post-Modern scholar, a lifetime non-straightedge, and a bad person to oppose in a game of Skip-Bo. Currently she resides in Los Angeles with her cat, and a closet full of costumes. She only ever jokes about living in her car, even though she knows it isn’t funny. You can follow her blog at: http://marisamarisa.tumblr.com