the memorized rat

sometimes reading poetry sounds like a lot of clichés i have heard before

i don’t think that makes it bad

because this isn’t really good… 

the words, “vivid images” do not act self-reflexively

so filler words like the and “like” are just very ______

rockets dripping with sweat of a thousand dead rats

who were sacrificed in the name of science

we lesioned their brains, or hashley did

and drew the wrong conclusions anyways

when will we ever learn

we still don’t know how it is we remember something

we don’t know where

we put it

but those rats suffered for us

escaping

and i am suddenly liberated from being my own canvas

if i give up my body 

as the place of my only existence

if i am just a soul

and the rest is reticent

i am not a white wall

at least, i’m not the only one

and knowing this— is sufficient

at least, for now

cough, ahem

i guess i feel like i’m getting fat

but the funnier thing is that

i’m objectifying myself

but then maybe that is what an identity is

goffman said i’m performing who i am

and in the mirror i see two people

there’s a person i can touch, with a feminine touch

might i add.

and there’s who i can see

a reflection of my “identity”

i don’t know about love

sometimes i feel like i don’t want to love anymore

i want the unbearable lightness

i want to feel a flight less 

from guilt and more from agency

is love all there is to see?

is every feeling the result of current company?

because if thats true then

maybe i should try to leave

he threw up his hands and laughed

ALL THE HANDS SAY  

PEACE THOUGH, 

PLEASE THOUGH,            

CONSIDER YOUR 

PEAK FLOW METER, 

WHEN YOU TAKE THE 

BREATH, 

BEFORE THE NEXT step

tell me

tell me something sweet,

tell me a saccharine nothing,

tell me you are mine,

tell me all the time.

tell me when you’ve cried,

tell me what’s inside.

tell me the strange outliers,

tell me the outlines.

tell me the gist

give me a hint

tell me your story

tell me about present/past glory.

tell me you’re sorry,

tell me to stop,

tell me to worry,

tell me to not.

tell me who you’re becoming,

tell me what’s in your stomach,

tell me where you keep your heart.

tell you what,

i’ll tell you stuff,

tell me when you’ve had enough.

a bed hug

all i want to do is sleep

because then i can dream of you

i bought a space heater

and it reminds me 

of the body heat 

my responsible is downtrodden

my tear duct is an aquaduct 

no one is thirsty in this village

haze

im kind of in a haze

after you went home today

i sat down to work

i sat down to relearn

all the things i dazed over before

///

but now i can’t really focus

maybe i’m a little hungry

but contemplating the fridge

makes me jumpy

///

what is this 

the box

so what i’m doing now is—

building a giant box with

a lot of different soils inside

you know all the choices reside,

in this space i made

even the ones i didn’t make.

then i cut some windows

and make stained glass art

this way you can look in

even when we’re apart

the vision will be a little warbly

i’ll try to move slowly

so you can see everything

so i am understood

so it seems —i am doing good.

my box of stuff

will shuffle around the globe with me

it will stay home to me

it will soothe the lonely

it will house my heart

you are welcome, certainly.

i don’t think

i don’t think gingers are ugly

i don’t think skaters are dumb

i don’t think a category is who you are

i don’t think i want to know everything

i don’t think we’ll ever fix all our problems

i don’t think we are doomed

i don’t think life is imminent

i don’t think anything is so important

i don’t think taxes will save us

i don’t think anyone could

i don’t think it matters

so do whatever you feel like you should