Whether your mother gave birth to you or you gave birth to your mother, pregnancy as a metaphysical problem revolts me. I’m all not about a mysticism of nesting dolls. This is where readership takes a turn, dizzies, like sounds in a swoon or advertisements for the shapewear of the future— the director figure (Andy Nyman) disembowels me for nearly ten minutes. It is beautiful, as in a wedding, red as a rose, red red red (rose rose rose).
A boy hates the duck pond. The mallards are clustered at his feet. He is sitting on a bench and sobbing. In his hand a phone—a text. The ducks eye the phone, expecting the boy will shred tiny pieces of plastic off and throw them into the tepid waters. The bank is a muddy green, there are slips of oil floating on the water like film from old pudding. The boy steps to the water’s edge. One duck realizes the boy is not a chef and squawks at the rest. They float into the pond’s throat and are swallowed by a storm drain. When the boy turns around the affections of his text is standing behind him. He does not have time to wipe his eyes.
FIELD NOTES ON DEALING WITH A LOVED ONE DISSOCIATING
With a knife fired white slice the air over their head to snap the tether a spirit has tied to the loved one’s head.
To contain the spirit, collect moss covered rocks and set them in a circle around the possessed.
If the spirit is too powerful, one can retreat to a graveyard where the spirit cannot cross.
If a graveyard is not available, the grounds of a math professor’s office works as well. Everyone knows math professors steal spirits.
If the possessed believes they are an animal become the animal’s arch nemesis: viper to mongoose, hyena to lion, human to intestinal parasite.
If you feel at any point you are in danger, take that feeling and use it as the plaster that seals a rocket. Fire the rocket into the sun.
Ignore the feeling of someone unscrewing the back latch of your skull and dumping hot coals inside.
Show no fear. Show no fear. Show no fear.
Do not let the spirit know that they are there. Never tell them you still love the person they have replaced.
* Boy meets girl. Boy meets girl’s knife. Boy understands girl is not an extension of knife, that the knife is pointed inward, sawing shavings off her ribs to get at her heart. Boy understands how she feels the toxic blood of another winding its agonizing way through her like tree roots through stone. Boy understands there are no toxins and that the spirit possessing her is not real. That spirits aren’t real. Spirits aren’t real. Spirits are not real. Boy meets the spirit inside the girl. Bloom in bloom there are two bodies mapped onto this face. Neither is the real girl. Both are the real girl. Boy cannot love both. One tries to destroy him, the other tries to restore him.
Mallards have nightmare penises. They are corkscrewed and tear the female. The boy and girl have spent spring afternoons under long sunsets watching the madly in love males chase the female ducks. They dunk their mate’s head in the water until they cannot breathe, beating the females with their breasts, two at once pinning one female down to bear their eggs.
Girl loves boy so much. Girl is girl and boy is boy and these are how these things work. There is so much love it splits reality in twos that twin. He helped her pick out her knife on a date at the med-fair. She kept it in her purse to protect her. Boy is the biggest danger in her life. Standing at the edge of the dirty pond he sees the knife. He lifts his hands. He is still crying when he says, “Go ahead.”
The sun is setting. The two hold each other. They joke about the fat lip the boy has. They reconcile. They tell each other how important they are. How it is so good to be done with fighting and have them back in their arms. The ducks have wandered back into the scene, curious if the boy and girl plan on tearing chunks off of each other to throw out into their waiting bills.
I am made of History, which extends even unto asbestos! I think of it and am overwhelmed… like sexy visions of a new neoliberalization of the classroom environment… I rev my David Harveyson and in Berkeley the conversation lulls around some desks. Did you know that this is a land grant university? Our state seal is, I think, an Algonquian man. Chancellor Kumble Subbaswamy drops by my poem to report, secondhandedly, "I don’t know why we even call the University public, since most of our bucks are military plastics.” If you can or can’t imagine Dustin Hoffman saying “military plastics,” you give identity thieves access to your time, place, and eight-digit debt recombinations. The most futile gesture in the world is therefore to shred your documents. None of us in the room can represent the problem, but we are none of us Sir Thomas More and the point isn’t a glamorous hat acquisition. You and I might cross, then, over a river together. It is impossible to tell when this action begins and ends. The shining brown water against the bow is some language I stole.
Sad and bored, bored and sad, eating Ritz crackers which’ll can never go bad for breakfast. I wonder if there’s a law against this (yes). I hate juridical apparatuses which impinge upon my otherwise being
a sandwich or a part of one. Who’s writing about mobility. The sun. Capitalism or the moon or the poet did this one for fun and changed the topic too late in the game— instantly everybody should be happy.
Instantly catastrophe as figure for some sinisterer aperture filtrating delight, soliciting confessions, sign your name and go to heaven’s the logic I was given. What apostrophes are possible now.
I become an egg to those who know me, not the kind that you can fertilize but the kind that stays in the fridge too long and the yolk freezes and now I am a poor breakfast but a great weapon to assault your neighbor’s door with that is to say I broke my toe last night and decided to write a poem about it long after the fact, in the course of five minutes without spellcheck. Much like eggings I am having the time of my life making a complete, senseless mess of things.
The whole world ends tomorrow! But due to a freak accident with a galactic supernova tearing the universe like wet cardboard the earth will be warped into another universe, only this time there will be bows on everything.
Ten lace ones tied so tight to your fingers they cut off circulation. A nice gossamer strip binding the doors of a school building burning down. Bows on the throats of every bird. Bows on traffic signs, covering the words. Bows on your bowl of cereal, each cereal individually wrapped. A bow tied around the moon that will have tragic effects on the tide. A bow on the whole planet, pillow suffocating western Europe. Even bows for your bones and brain like soft, colorful alien parasites.
When I wake to all this I’ll know, “Wow, it’s a whole new year,” before I begin the long task of unraveling the world around me.
When the psalm sings instead of the singer,
When the script preaches instead of the preacher,
When the pulpit descends and goes instead of the carver that
carved the supporting desk,
When I can touch the body of books by night or by day, and
when they touch my body back again,
When a university course convinces like a slumbering woman and
When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-watchman’s
When warrantee deeds loafe in chairs opposite and are my friendly
I intend to reach them my hand, and make as much of them as
I do of men and women like you.
The Walt Whitman poem Dead Poets Society should have had everyone saying as they stood on desks (via trashthetics)
I plan to be the supervillain that will blow up the world on my birthday. I will be known as Birthday Boy, with my high-tech strength enhancing, bullet proof Birthday Suit.
My best-friend recommends I make sure to blow out all my candles first, but I don’t have a cake, or candles, or a composite volcano or a Chernobyl or even a party popper.
Instead I will blow up the world with a cigarette and the attitude of a polar bear drifting on a slab of ice south of Greenland.
My backup plan is voodoo. I will get two hundred lit candles and stuff them into a globe, all I need is a tuft of grassy hair. It has snowed all month, no one in this city remembers what grass looks like, so I fumigate my desires with scented candles and write this plot down in my dream journal.
I am caught in the aerials of longing! My bones are pinched together in the wind and the finches are using the skeleton of a rosebush to keep the gusts from scattering them like powdered snow. The weather moves in three separate musical movements towards my birthday. All of the movements are cold enough to freeze birdsong.
I sew pinions together for a set of wings, the needle tips laced through my skin. My blood sticky enough to bind the feathers together, but no act of violence will move me south for the winter. The pigeons in the iced courtyard stop caring, and the wind tucks them in with snow.