Support System
Candle
beneath blanket smoldered.
There,
warmth lingers. Time is oxygen
when
masking loss, whether game or
ship
sunk undersea. Between seams
of
mattress and spring, mold is present.
Night
growth. Bacteria teems through
still
and storm, snow and fall. Leaf
through
online albums, no prints to hold.
Like
lovers in different states. One city
skyline
topples– you may have lost
at Jenga,
but friends will help
rebuild all your fallen towers.
Tonight, in My Studio Apartment
TV max volume 100 at 4AM
stomping
your neighbors must hate you so stop
not listen feel
(let go of
everything
of what I want
which is you to stay in my arms
all night which you do
but not in bed
just the way our playlist
changes you say
get out of here with this anime shit
about your own additions)
the remote becomes the microphone
you shove in my mouth
taste of battery
black plastic radio waves
on my tongue no one complains
about the noise
except the crowd
in my head
I make dissipate
in the drumsticks of discontent
rimmed so slightly
in the biological need we are not
doing
my hand
between your legs
resting in a way
we do not know
in the
desert
you
stay
for
those who wander
lost
and parched you are clear
and
cool and pure nothing
can corrupt
you
in a place of dust
Wherever I am,
I am both here
and gone.
My skin
flakes off
when I move
from heartbreak
to love, pain
to celebration.
I may be part
nothing,
but I am here to stay.
It's Interactive!
An unopened book. Open it. Whoa!
Words appear and interact
with your imagination, slapping
the tonsils inside your skull.
You
can jump back, shrieking, slam
it
shut, chuck it into the trash
flaps
in the other half of the room–
which you didn't know was
another
half until now, just one giant
tiny
space your bed takes half of,
there's half again, this
lazy
approximation of your ancestry
and you can clench your fist,
punch your forehead yelling
stupid! stupid! then ask
why am I calling you stupid?
You being me being you,
first and second comingling,
and you can shriek again
but that would make you
punch your sack of skull
moaning stupid! stupid!
and you don't want that,
I don't want anything
but it's impossible–
frog bottles singing choruses
on top of the fridge to clear
your brain, blank slate, glass
behind the cabinet door
you can pull open,
it's interactive, spin around
to face the giant window–
stare at glass 'til dark
or three sock-steps to peer
through. How to see
past the tree? These leaves
obfuscate everything:
blue sky and concrete.
To interact you must be
wind or chainsaw or both
and you spent too much
time in this building
when you were sad,
when I wanted escape.
The door was always
unlocked, I just had
to lift the comforter
from my body in
the early morning,
twist the knob,
and rip open the chest,
my life in a surgery
of senses.
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