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Asshole 5

For The Batshit Crazy+For The Batshit Crazy
For the batshit crazy girls, hair shaved into cocoons, legs so beautiful and unmendable. For the terrible feminists, hands the color of menstruation and thievery. For the
crane necked women at my window, white, arms lifted above hip, quiet dogs at their feet. For the bitches with breasts
like billboards, babies ripped out, the scent of anguish and commotion patted behind the ear. For the bridesmaids
drinking at the fence, smoking cigars, emptied out. Brushing their tender hides, readying.


This Morning -+This Morning -
This morning I made coffee as if my womb was
not a dried blond leaf. I might not be as sharp
as a breath mint, nor beautiful as needing one. I may not love that you think of me as a screwdriver
or milk cap. But this morning I rose from the sheets
like a tiger, like an obituary, a vial of cocaine. I have
ruined my marriage by swelling and swelling into
sorrow, but I rose this morning, did my hair like it
was a white flower, or shoes that had not yet been tried out. This morning I entere


When I Write -+When I Write -
When I write
there is a whirring as if a desert helicopter is
anchoring down.
A lover once told me I was Cézanne of heart. But this did
not change my writing, instead it made me begin to hate this man, who was so bound by what
is or is not. If sound escapes
a room, it finds a place to land, whether that place is an ear or
hand or locust. When I write,
my mother told me once that
I make a little sound in the back of my throat as if I am aching or lost.


When He Told Me He Did Not+When He Told Me He Did Not
When he told me that he did not love me anymore - 2004:
No reaction. His hair reefed from the storm that day,
hands like two nets touching each other. Women in
my position throughout history have cried, have cast
bodies at their lover's feet. But me, no reaction: no
ellipsis where my heart should be. No monster on
my shoulders. No days after, nothing but cold pudding
in the refrigerator, wearing nothing but a pink bathrobe,
arms like doves or rain. No weeding the garden again. And again, and a


This Is How It Started+This Is How It Started
Your face like a freshly dug hole. How it started: the rage, the dead cat that you told me to bury and forget about. Your face like the oriole I found
with chewed off wings, cranial sutures opening. I like that you are vertical and black. I like that you are a huge flat slab while sleeping. How it started:
we said good morning, but it wasn't. Your face like a soldier sweeping for mines. I like that you wear rabbit wigs. Tiger gloves. I like that you
think love


PurposeWhere is that purpose I'd entertain Each day over lunch - furious that life's just forced labor smoothed over with decisions such as "Would you like to be a slave to the white cloth or the blue?" Where's that purpose whose dream I believed in (to be free on one's own terms) only dragging through high school's finPurpose
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| "During the terrible years of the Yekhov terror I spent seventeen months in the prison queues in Leningrad. One day someone ‘identified’ me. Then a woman with lips blue with cold who was standing behind me, and of course had never heard of my name, came out of the numbness which affected us all and whispered in my ear—(we all spoke in whispers there): ‘Could you describe this?’ I said, ‘I can!’ Then something resembling a smile slipped over what had once been her face." — Anna Akhmatova |
--
fear is the mantra of invention...
MORTAL COIL is a poetic term that means the troubles of daily life and the strife and suffering of the world. It is used in the sense of a burden to be carried or abandoned.
-critmass 12/11/09
--
fear is the mantra of invention...
MORTAL COIL is a poetic term that means the troubles of daily life and the strife and suffering of the world. It is used in the sense of a burden to be carried or abandoned.
-critmass 12/11/09
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