Sunday, May 30, 2010

I dream of being organized. of being out of pain. of having a gut full of crystals: opiate residue. Like the crystals that consumed the box for the oil gusher in the gulf. crystals in the so deep it's so cold. At what point does one decide -- that's it: cut me. It's been 5 months. Is that too long to wait? Not long enough? There are moments when my mind is available, and I feel like myself, and I look at the date and I can only wonder what I've been doing. What did I do during February? Was I here? Did you see me?

Saturday, May 29, 2010

clean scissors, I beg
for rescue, for a pin
to tend the pain: pink
not newly, slit red
then blue. In purple
liquids I store
the pulse: thump
thump in the dark
narcotics. Fizz-
winged, my fissures
shore: approach
the winking beacon
of a still-life body:
smooth and porous, pried
free from every
pinching reign: stung
veins and stony ventricles.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Thursday, May 13, 2010

A few kind words can go a long way. Each time someone is kind to me, I feel like breaking. The mirror silence of a still pool: ripples the weight of great lakes. Their glaciers staggered down. We measured the mountains. This small sadness I can hold in my hands, taste it on my tongue. Salt showers and the glow inside bones -- lit up, electric signs. The desert is the pain of home, the home away. This withholding -- it makes me long for it all the more. Sympathy is a craving. The stone around us turns to ice.

Sunday, May 02, 2010

Don't say "spill," say "gusher."

I cant stop thinking about the oil, the pressure, the spindletop, and how deep below the water's surface the top of the well is, and then the depth of the well itself. I watch videos and there are pop-up ads for free oil stock reports and the coast guard GI bill. The crooks are hiding in plain sight. On the major news network, the reporter talks over the academic. There are so many things that we are not allowed to see.

is this real?