...

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In a strange darkness, getting my fingers stuck in rims of moons, a girl made of midnight appears to show me my name, and as my name slides like a belt round my hips she says all of earth is here not to serve me, but for me to serve; I may as well leave my cave, there is no pressure. In an hour I grow my eyebrows into bushy knights, and make a bed of pine sweat to love myself in, loving everything. Even the blind horses that call for my head I love, and even the nights that make it hard to see I love. Even the light that is too bright I love, and the food too high up I love. Even my body which all my life I figured was blank disgust, reveals itself as juice from a long-ago party and I love that, too. There is an ancient snow funneling through me, pushing, the dragonfly wing they pin to the underside of my eye now electric, and I find I am not empty but numb, and once I know this everything wakes, inside me a giant eye stands and asks for something to drink. What would you give it, a rainbow?



o



Whatever,
A strange caressing message from your eyes:
If you wanna go out now, the pool is nice.
Crack open a bar of light,
Have it there when the moon’s too tight.
Be my little riptide.
Or whatever.
Just some other night.
Stuck in the kitchen, picturing
Perfect alphabet scenarios.
Unlock the back door and let the alien in.
It’s just you, from some other time.



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Parties for populations of radio bones,
Radio homes,
I went, I saw you, I forgot my way home;
Where did I live when I was little, do you know,
Think I used to be tethered to balloons.

My past has infinite rooms, unlike the future,
Which the dentist pulled too soon.

Something carrying me, something old not something new,
I borrowed something but never gave it back to you.

Parties like that, people always lie,
Your eyes, your eyes,
Like lemons or lime in the living room, alive,
but summer just gives the birds to dive
Them back into blankets of cold phosphorescent sea wires.

If anyone said goodbye,
The words got lost like antarctica satellites.
And I guess the music carried on
And I notice later the fragility.
When there is blood in the sink
And a weird stabbing impossibility
In everything.



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It’s Mother’s Day, I still have a mother, and the weather is nice when I go down the road for a non-alcoholic beer. I get a tropical sour and a craft cider, neither of which will get me drunk. This sucks, because at the moment I feel short-sighted and I want to be drunk today. I am out in the world armed with nothing but a tight chest of anxiety, I invision it like a ball of wire that I swallowed on accident and now it is stuck right there, in my sternum, a part of me. If I went to the doctor maybe they'd just say it's all me now. If they took an x-ray, maybe my anxiety would show up as a butterfly with a nail in its wing. Usually this feeling, this unbearable inability to relax, this "danger, bear!" feeling stands as a precursor to being hammered, which is what I sort of want to do, drink and go make collages, drink or ride the glittery waves of the past, or otherwise drink and sit on the couch with music playing so loud it rattles my senses to green mush, but I just can’t commit to returning to that character, that me who is drunk all the time, lonely and drunk in my rooms. Drunkenness makes me feel especially lonely because it’s like a final abandonment, I’m totally gone from myself when I do it.

So, yeah, whatever. I won't drink. But I don't feel good with this decision, I just feel tired, knowing it's gonna be an annoying thing (choice) that follows me all my life probably, since I've tasted blood and just want more; I am some horrible version of a shark or hound on the hunt, unaware that it's my own blood I'm smelling, and each taste will only kill me a little more. Does this metaphor clear? Hi Mother’s Day - my mother is currently alive. Despite this it’s still Sunday and Sundays are always too drenched in expectations, they feel empty on account of being too open—I’m supposed to be doing anything I want, why can I just sit and do nothing.

But good news is on the way. I bought mom a new mirror to replace the ones the cat broke, and I put two bows on it, one neon pink and one neon orange, and carried the mirror to the kitchen where I placed it against the wall and began the wait for her to notice. She noticed as I was pouring her and Nana some wine, the wine was a pink Pinot Grigio. I could tell she was happy about the gift. Nice. I even looked at myself in the mirror a couple times as a greenish lowdown sunlight ricocheted in through the kitchen windows and surged like vapour in the mirror glass and captured me also in this light. I admired my thrifted burgundy shoes and the strangeness of my rapidly darkening eyebrows (I’ve kept them bleached for months, basically all winter). It’s one of those days you look at yourself and feel very sweet towards your own ankles. Re: Moms. I don’t know exactly what to say to mine, and I still love her; I don’t think I need to know everything about her to love her, or for her to know everything about me, my love for her actually includes all the odd redactions that have taken place throughout our relationship, and even includes all the things I think we could do better at, or worse.

For dinner we ordered in Chinese and I played some music on the television, Nature and the Wreck by Mates of State. There was a tiny chocolate cake I can't stop eating. When you come across a good chocolate cake, you just know. It brightens afternoons, and every bite makes neon of evening. So far the cats have not taken bites of the flowers. I have a bit of a headache, but am not bothered - just sitting on the couch unbothered with a new interesting companion, neck pain. I think about the week ahead, of the work I have to do. Don't want to do it. Don't want to do it. Want to win the lottery and, like, fall in love instead. Wondering if the pain in my neck is related to my giant boobs? Hate giant boobs. Need more chocolate cake. I wish I could explain how perfectly fudgy it is. Am I a woman or not? Feel like a critter tonight. Greasy, a duck covered in oil, I can see a residue in every single one of my feathers. Wasn't there a great commercial about ducks and oil spills and dish soap. Who cares. I didn't drink. Hooray. Feel like a numbskull. Feel close to my creative powers, though. So what if I am late to everything, and have a weird relationship with my body and also my mind. One day when I am nothing I will miss those things from my nothingness, I'm sure.