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“ROTTING GOD” by me & “less hope” by Danez Smith

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Book of hours, Rainer Maria Rilke

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I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world.

I may not ever complete the last one, but I give myself to it.

I circle around God, that primordial tower.

I have been circling for thousands of years,

and I still don't know: am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?

[Rilke, I, 21]

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The Prestige, Hanif Willis Abdurraqib

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Got diagnosed with bpd almost two years ago & no one told me…

I continue to collect acronyms; fool’s gold, rich with nothing.

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Pocket poem, Ted Kooser

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Everything is Waiting for You Your great mistake is to act the drama

as if you were alone. As if life

were a progressive and cunning crime

with no witness to the tiny hidden

transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny

the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,

even you, at times, have felt the grand array;

the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding

out your solo voice. You must note

the way the soap dish enables you,

or the window latch grants you freedom.

Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.

The stairs are your mentor of things

to come, the doors have always been there

to frighten you and invite you,

and the tiny speaker in the phone

is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into

the conversation. The kettle is singing

even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots

have left their arrogant aloofness and

seen the good in you at last. All the birds

and creatures of the world are unutterably

themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

David Whyte

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Night Walk

The all-night convenience store’s empty

and no one is behind the counter.

You open and shut the glass door a few times

causing a bell to go off,

but no one appears. You only came

to buy a pack of cigarettes, maybe

a copy of yesterday’s newspaper—

finally you take one and leave

thirty-five cents in its place.

It is freezing, but it is a good thing

to step outside again:

you can feel less alone in the night,

with lights on here and there

between the dark buildings and trees.

Your own among them, somewhere.

There must be thousands of people

in this city who are dying

to welcome you into their small bolted rooms,

to sit you down and tell you

what has happened to their lives.

And the night smells like snow.

Walking home for a moment

you almost believe you could start again.

And an intense love rushes to your heart,

and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.

Franz Wright

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February, month of despair,

with a skewered heart in the centre.

I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries

with a splash of vinegar.

Cat, enough of your greedy whining

and your small pink bumhole.

Off my face! You’re the life principle,

more or less, so get going

on a little optimism around here.

Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

Margaret Atwood

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How I long to be pure

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Doesn’t Every Poet Write A Poem About Unrequited Love?

The flowers I wanted to bring to you,

wild and wet from the pale dunes

and still smelling of the summer night,

and still holding a moment or two of the night cricket’s humble prayer, would have been

so handsome in your hands— so happy—

I dare to say it— in your hands— yet your smile

would have been nowhere and maybe you

would have tossed them onto the ground,

or maybe, for tenderness, you would have

taken them into your house and given them water

and put them in a dark corner out of reach.

In matters of love of this kind

there are things we long to do but must not do.

I would not want to see your smile diminished.

And the flowers, anyway, are happy

just where they are, on the pale dunes,

above the cricket’s humble nest,

under the blue sky that loves us all.

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Thank you for serving me cups of lemon tea

with honey in it. Even though such copious amounts of liquid

would no doubt drown the insect

I imagined myself to be, that was kind

of you.

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if you stare at fangs

long enough, even fangs pink

with your own blood look soft.

Sometimes I wish I felt the side effects, Danez Smith

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if you think i fucked up you can just tell me.

bite my lip so it bleeds

clean me out with your fingers even when i close my legs

…

forward.

i’m clean now. so it’s okay to kiss me.

I asked the tarot why it hurts when you’re inside me, Tori Ashley Matos

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oh plucking bones from graves girl rising girl rising & rising girl teach me again how to live that loose that tumble down girl before I slit the vein girl & never mother us whole

Rubble girl, Jean Gishan

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Amanda & the Light

FRIDA KAHLO What the Water Gave Me , 1938