weight with the tree
leaves slap thighs wet and green.
ovulation in rainfall
a summer orgasm.
i am numb.
tired of writing fanciful speculation when reality procures no angle of repose. nowhere to rest also
no one to appreciate the youth left in me, just a hungry toddler on my tit. she does not care for the shape and weight and heft or the beauty of the skin and pink- only for her milk and suck. am i middle aged?
i feel a hundred. this is directly related to dreams not coming true, and heart break becoming ill, cancerous, tumor ridden, cavernous faced, nothing to write a pop song nothing to photograph. the Kardashians appear and their hair screams for a hard yank, thick and black and glossy, but everyone knows their father had throat cancer and died.
at the thrift store with Ever. she piles orange pillows onto a credenza and i collect and buy these:
Impulse by Frederick Ramsey
My Life by Golda Meir
The Human Factor by Graham Greene
The Brooklyn Follies by Paul Auster
i will read them late at night and it will not be perfect. the terrible numb pulses like a wound against the corner of my consciousness and eats away at every typewritten word. nothing can be avoided. the mother has no where to hide. i am not allowed my deep fault lines yet they exist. hang underneath my children and i as i walk with each stuffed underneath my arms the most precious the most precious my precious. i am a gollum. i will follow to ends of earth for my precious. my children throw fits and laugh and eat and fart and snore and have no idea there mother walks over cavernous gaps in the earth with their golden headed innocence gabbing in the baby bjorn. i lift them and remind ' i am strong. ' the terrible thing happens to me: a cliche. i am tired of being strong, i think, i am so tired of being strong. i will do everything. i will do everything but make my dreams come true. when i must hit send i will hit delete. i have done this many times. i have let myself get pregnant, delayed responses, missed deadlines and gone mute in order to silence myself. the writer! what a lie. i write words around myself and in the end am as silent as if i were still gagged and bound in my room, year fifteen of my life, still with the hairs of my father's mustache scattered across my jeans.
nothing happens to me that i do not create. everything happens to me that i create. i write my own storyline to punish myself. what did i do wrong, i do not know, but i will not let myself move. where this came from i do not know, but there is a horrible pain in my right side that just began, and the body never lies. the body never lies. although right now i could point and be correct, that i am not directly causing this pain, if i showed you the wiring, pulled it from the seams so it popped out clear and delineated, you would see that the wires led back to me. you would find my little blonde body in the closet, wrapped in wires, staring up at you with pug nose freckles blue eyes from the dark, like some kind of nightmare you like to see movies about but never want to meet in real life.