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mood-mixer · 8 years ago

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thesis super rough draft

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i. celestial body

it is quiet in there

in that global atmosphere

where her aesthetic lies

it is quiet like a

flock of eyelashes sighing

through infinity

under the weight of

astronomical expectations.

meteors make no sound

as they dangle from her ears,

set aflame on her cue

despite the lack of oxygen

(she does not breathe oxygen

she breathes the snowy

diamonds of Saturn’s climate)

it is quiet in there

in that vacuum of

pressurized perfection,

with pollution so thick

she cannot feel her own (deserving) breath

(she does not know when she is breathing

she does not know when her blood is pulsing

and there are no shortcuts to these answers

because the corners she might cut

are constantly morphing)

pollution so thick she cannot see her vapor

rise to the iridescent comet clutter

it is quiet in there

in that black hole of conformity

she knows nothing about

yet knows so intimately

it is quiet in there

but it is too loud to move

to exercise agency of any kind

even in her self-made heaven

it consumes

ii. outer layer

mine is standoffish,

accidentally shy

there is not much room

for first impressions. they

glisten through my galaxy

like ceramic particles—one side

showy and attractive

the other dull and crumbly

hers is guarded, with an undercurrent

of viciousness and self-preservation

like a star of space glass

unique and trembling next

to the sun but not without

a sense of direction.

it is embedded

in her underarm and has been

since she first got cat called at age

12. she understands its protective

objective and considers it comprehensively

within her sphere:

weather (will there be meteors again?)

where the distance of a light year from the threshold of the bedroom door will land her

the precise temperature of the sun and its idiosyncratic impact on each planet, each piece of existing space junk

the outer asteroid belt of her sphere and all the possibilities of how each rock within it will treat her today

whether or not her tides will obey the gravitational force of her moon

the unquestionable extraterrestrials monitoring her every move

this is not an exhaustive list, only her most weighted daily considerations

they revolve around expectations and contradictions

which is not the only thing we have in common (but by far the most remarkable)

iii. cataclysmic event

a McDonald’s French fry

from the bottom of its greasy cardboard holder

from your glistening fingertip and

lands.

between the console and the driver’s seat

right

where it will

be retrieved

you worked out

you did SQUATS for that motherfucking fry

you worked hard for this gluttonous I mean

glorious moment of satisfaction,

unlike any satisfaction known to humankind

Choking back tears you lick your lips

in longing and consider the alternate ending

as a meteor crashes on the hood of the 1998 honda civic hatchback in the lane next to you

a pitiful tear falls from your cheek in this moment as you

realize how closely you relate with the pile of annihilated metal

entangled with unexpected depression and a touch of muted rage

you snap a picture and begin to sob as your eyes trail back to the

long lost fry, salty particles beckoning you from the devious trench

traffic is stopped and relief washes over you as the honda bursts

into a tower of flames with its driver jailed inside

people rushing with flushed faces

sirens in the background to add to the chaos

in all this urgency you have managed to recuse

your slightly mangled savory sweetheart

you have manifested your alternate ending

an ant has already made its way to the treasure

but you cherish it unconditionally like your very own child

IV. Moment of Reflection

She punctures her pressurized presence with a single atom of agency and she is the only survivor.

Apocalypse has never sounded as fragile as the twinkling diamonds that rain around her.

Fire permeates every invisible boundary and ignites her confidence like the Sun’s solar flares reaching for expansion.

This is not an ecosystem fit for corporeal beings. Her transcendence is the only source of light.

Her outer layer has combusted, the magnitude of her core burning so bright it must be assigned an ambiguous measurement of infinitely negative value.

She is the energy source of the big bang but she does not allow things to simply fall into place.

She is accompanied by only the soil, composed of unpolished diamonds of varying sizes and the full spectrum of color emanating from each gem.

Detrimental to existence but fundamental for her own. Everything is made of diamonds and they become completely ordinary.

She punctures her pressurized presence with a single sharp atom of agency.

And this is how she ceases: her own apocalypse.

But bubbles this big take time to pop.

One by one, men spontaneously combusted every time she opened the door for them.

(not done yet super messy rn)

The Mentally Ill Empath

Self-Doubt is the only shopping mall

in her thriving metropolis, Anxiety

it features brand names

like Low Self-Esteem

Perfection Mask

White Thin Apparel

Empty Self-Care

Sometimes she is the Mayor of Anxiety.

Sometimes she is a volunteer at the local Humane Society.

Sometimes she does not know where she is.

Sometimes genuine is the only thing she is.

Sometimes she sticks her hand out to introduce herself

but her language is limited to only one word.

“Genuine! Genuinegenuine, genuine?”

Between the Lines of Cosmopolitan

Check your sanity at the door please

(What little you have left)

because this is a place of completion

where outside influences are strictly

prohibited. (Pictures allowed but ONLY

with the flash. The aesthetic is crucial.)

All we are asking is that you slice off

your atrocious lack of thigh gap. We recommend

an Exacto knife for this, just make sure

to have some styptic powder ready.

All we are asking is that you brush

your teeth with baking soda to

bring out the pearliest white.

We recommend eating gentle foods

because your beaming enamel will

be fragile.

All we are asking is that you work

out twice daily for three hours and

exceed the recommended 10,000

steps a day by about four times.

All we are asking is that you abandon

your idiosyncrasies and tell them,

with one cocktail in each hand,

you will be back in the morning.

We recommend you do not ever return.

All we want is to abduct

your self-worth and place it in a test

tube with the rest of the useless

positivity that gets you through each day.

Standards of Conduct

Section I. The “Self”

A. Eye contact with reflection in every reflective surface

B. Refusal of local, national, international news to sprout and nourish self-ignorance (disable mobile device, impeccable filtration of friends and pages on Facebook)

C. Flawlessness in every sense, with a foundation of:

a. entitlement

b. numbness

c. amputated self-agency

Section II. Attention Given to Anyone Other than “Self”

A. Politeness

a. excessive small talk (especially family)

b. minimal emotional connection (those that can achieve no emotional connection with others will automatically be awarded exclusive VIP membership, see section V.)

B. Obedience

a. to these standards

b. to superiors

Section III. Exercise and Nourishment

your monthly rest day should include at least 6 of these activities

a. mountain climbers everywhere you go

b. lunges on your way to the doctor

c. crunches on your way to work

d. jumping jacks at Easter brunch to avoid awkward silences

e. squats on your way to the bar with the 11th first date of the week

f. weight lifting with watermelons and pork chops at the grocery store

g. bicep curls through your nightly 6 hours of sleep

Section IV. Love

A. Of oneself: N/A

B. Of others: N/A

C. Of these standards: eternal.

Section V. VIP Status

A. Eligibility to apply for rewards program

a. Rewards program: a monthly walk through a rose garden, blooming with bees and life depending on the season, with one (1) selected significant other that will hold your hand and silently accompany you through the garden as you become weary of nature’s potent fumes like a praying mantis’ stunned body after its female mate decapitates him.

This program can only be maintained by upholding these standards and the vital emotional apathy as to not excite the roses and pester the bees. Daily reevaluation by program officials required.

Sign with the name you wish you had HERE:

________________________________

Date with last time you cried HERE:

__________________________

Missing: Selena’s Pores

She appears so cool calm and collected

as her pores scream wildly at the top of her

skin LET ME OUT I CAN’T BREATHE

they have been kidnapped and all

the local news channels have been notified

the police station has filed a missing persons report

even though more than 20 thousand have disappeared

but they do not take it seriously

they joke about it as they sit at their

desks facing one another with their

badges in their right hands and their dicks in the other

the pores cannot breathe under a smothering

foundation and a dust of dirt even their

pussy retaliations cannot attract attention

it has been nearly 24 hours

since their last drink of water and the

dehydration is making them delusional

their hallucinations manifest where else

they would rather be

under the sun

with a tall glass of ice water in hand

they all want the same thing

toes in the sand enjoying the exfoliation

kissing and caressing their circular neighbors tucked so

closely to their roundness with no task

other than to be alive

I am the only one still searching for them

police say they do not have time to search for

an entire face full of pores

Selena gets paid to smile and act like this

is as whole as she has ever felt

she won’t repeat

the mistake that overflows

with thrill as each and every

second exceeds the previous one in length

her lips drown in the mixture of

nostalgia and insecurities

it tastes like

lemonade made from

real true Californian lemons,

salt instead of sugar.

when it spills it is not sticky

it is smooth and invisible

like puddle of whirling air

its healing properties

can bring the swelling down

in a sprained limb

is viscosity is limited and

constantly shape shifts

into is holder’s form

she does not like the taste

of it she does not like how

each sip gets saltier

and brighter she does not

prefer this opaque golden

silk but she prefers it

over the repulsive stench

and rejuvenation of

apple cider vinegar

but this is an individual case

for some this juice is

tragic, like expired poison

has filled their lungs

and suffocated

their will to live

for some it is refreshing

to recall the taste

of mortality

like a stream of blood running

from the nose into the mouth

for some it is addictive

a sea-salty drip in the back

of the throat

unparalleled by

any other refreshment

for some it is powerful

like the inorganic

necessity of

insecticides on a lemon

orchard waiting to

exterminate

field of follicles

a luscious field of golden wheat shivers in the wind as we drive by and

I shiver at the thought of explaining my silence

she drives as I fret

should I say something

she stops at a red light and the CD switches tracks

should I let her know

now it is too late as she raises her hand to put on the radio

why I am not okay with

another chance gobbled up by indecision

being shamed for having hair

her demeanor is safe sweet kind until now

should I risk my well being

she calculates out loud how much longer we have until we arrive

should I purposely collapse into my soggy cardboard self

she says it will only be another 12 minutes

filled with the emptiness of rain-rotted vulnerability

now she says we are here and she parks in the middle of a blooming field of clover

how will she react how will I react to her reaction how will she react to my reaction of her reaction

I am not a political advertisement unless you make me one I breathe silently

the clover reciprocates my breath and blows fuchsia perfume through her gray hairs

rule breakers

maybe this is how i will come out to my family

hand them a neatly bound chapbook

with nothing but the poems and their titles

no foreword no dedication not even a table of contents

nothing but text, black and white

just how my father prefers to think

many of the edgy girls in cosmopolitan are queer

these are the ones that “break the rules” the “badass babes”

they wear bold make up and a perfect set of brows

they all make out with each other and never respond to

invitations, nor do they reciprocate them

this is what makes them “badass babes”

none of them predicted they would all end up in

a three page cosmopolitan article that would

replace their queerness with edginess

maybe this is how i will come out to my family

I should speak with a cosmopolitan representative after I

finish writing this. it could be good. it will just have

to be published in black and white for my father

Conversations with a Mirror From Four Prespectives

A Perfectionist

I am not.

I’m simply

Attracted

To details

And like to

Take my time

Because my

Work ethic

Tells me to.

Failure

Is something

I am not

Familiar

With because

It is not

An option.

I am a

Quarry and

Perfection

Is my quaint

Bulldozer.

Not a single

Pebble will

Go untouched.

A Narcissist

Do not tell me what

I am

I know myself better than anyone and

I also know that my conversations only

begin by interrupting someone else

every time without fail

I immediately retract the

piece of interjection offered and

redirect it to the empath in me

and ask her why do

I think that is okay?

but

she is always sleeping or sobbing or embracing

someone that does not understand.

if she is awake she glares and I force

an apology from my lips to relieve her gaze.

I interrupt people to ask if they have

seen my new shirt do you like it?

everyone always says yes as if

they understand how exquisite

my style is but they will never

understand how exquisite

I am

especially in comparison to them.

A Masochist

i like to drink

a cup of nails

in the morning

just before work

and every half hour

after that. i like the

way it tastes on my

throbbing tongue

how it reverses

the healing of the

anxiety-induced

sores in my mouth

they are like

leeches on my gums

it stings but i like

the interruption

of numbness and

the vivid dreams it grants

i like the detox

of happiness

the lack of joy

is the only thing

that fills me

A Conformist

I am a unanimous set

of songs that plays on repeat

in the background of everything

I do and I do not look up unless

the person on either side of

me does first.

This, however, requires

observational skill and sometimes

I am too skilled in this area to be

considered whole. As long as

I do not implement any

critical thinking skills I will thrive.

but

when I see a fire flicker

in the paper shredder

5.38 feet away from my cubicle

it is hard to ignore. I wait until

the heat peels the paint off of

all the walls within a 10 foot radius

to react because otherwise I might

set the whole office on fire with my

chaos.

Skin Enhancing Lotion

that skin you were born in?

oh yes you may revive it

we have been waiting for you.

this system is almost like the

first step of addiction

recovery

it must be the user’s idea to

get help

but in this case you are not

addicted to drugs (although

you may as well be)

you are addicted to averageness

and body positivity

you need help

oh yes back to this skin of yours

it rests in a microscopic cage

it is not old enough to be potty-

trained and we like it that way

because its helplessness is so pure.

do not let it grow. do not let it learn.

certainly do not let it show signs of

learning because really, as we like to think,

aging is the physical manifestation of knowledge.

Subtleties

Lately I have been

conflating “subtle”

and “supple”

how would you problem solve

if your schemas relied only

on the way things sounded

rather than what they meant

and this is the root of the problem

because even the word “meant” sounds

a whole lot like “mint” and “root”

sounds exactly like “route”

depending on your dialectical preference

is there room for preference

in interpretation

or is that the dictionary definition

for bias

the socialized great uncle of preference

they sound unrelated but the differences

in their meanings are subtle

subtle enough to be synonyms? not likely

supple enough to split like cells

during mitosis? closer

like the way “woman” sounds closer to “human” than “man” does

is the “wo-” what makes her as supple as the generalizations of her? or is it only a subtle construction of meaningless boxes?

suppleness is not a qualification for womanhood but a prerequisite for softness subtly and strength.

A Love Story (this is a placeholder title suggestions welcome)

There is a single hair centered on each of my big toes. They usually average about 3/4” long. Dark and wispy like a raven’s very first set of feathers.

Sometimes they are in conversation with one another. Usually they complain about how cold they are but today they asked me to trim them. This was very unlike them. I misunderstood (as I usually do with the language of my body hair) and plucked each one from its little hill of skin. The task came with ease. Something close to relief.

6 days later they were long enough to talk again. And they were livid. They spoke as if I could not hear them. I overheard them discuss the fact that they do not have strength in numbers but their roots had grown stronger than ever, especially since I had plucked them. They said they would never be the same. Coarser. Darker. Rugged. They might even multiply, which apparently was not in their 10 year plan.

Scab

Growing back thicker and more deeply set each time, I must admit I am getting worried. It has been over a year since the accident, yet it will not leave me. (This may be the only thing I have ever wanted [this desperately] to leave me.)

The process goes something like this:

1. I pick and scratch like I’m digging out a banana’s tiny, gray bruise.

2. I repeat this until an edge deviates from the rest of me. A crunchy skin tag.

3. Time to peel! I clasp the edge between my dusty thumbnail and index fingernail.

4. Pull. Pull. Pull. Tug. Increments of aging.

5. I take a break. Breathe through it.

6. Pull. Pull. Pull. Tug. Like the sticker off of a moldy brae burn.

7. Here it is. I have been waiting for you.

8. I analyze this small memento of myself like a close reading exercise. Tenfold the meaning of any poem.

9. I must consume it in order to regenerate it. Entire placentas are eaten, so why not a sprinkle of skin? It is dry in my mouth but only on one side. Dry and structured like a fleshy diamond. I would compare it to a particle of rock candy, sans sugar, but it is so much more nutritious than that. I roll it over in my mouth with a wave of saliva. Now I can enjoy the best part. Rich and chewy, potent with flavor. Like a single bacon bit. When I am eager and harvest too soon it oozes a coppery syrup. When I am preoccupied and harvest too late it hardens like a residual drop of glaze in a ceramic oven. When I am attentive and harvest punctually its frosting is like scarlet creamy peanut butter, smeared on its brittle boat.

#poetry #freeverse #revisions #process

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