in a dream, my father and i sit on the ground listening to magnolia electric co., talking about shades of colors no one’s ever named and how we both feel like the steel spokes in the tracks laid for the trains that take everyone we love where they’ve always wanted to be their whole lives.
the last three nights i’ve dreamt of smashing my own face in.
in the last four years all that’s changed about me is the shade of dark under my eyes and the even-tempered cliff of my voice when i say things are fine.
once i’m out of the negative headspace i’ve been occupying for the better part of the last 6 months, maybe i’ll actually sit down and bind my own books and send them to city lights and become something real, something intended.
i regret your life for you so your back stays straight.
this is the first birthday I wish I were dead for.
when a body dies is it then the verb rotting?, the adj. hauntingly?, or in a slang universe — “grounded” — or in the industrial present indicative, a literal dirtbag, a fleshy encasing of diluted organ, flat tissue parallel with the entrance to heaven. my father wrote me, “the dog has died. we buried her on the path to a future tense,” “where no single thing can be erased, but built,” my brother said, and the dog, from underneath, beat the feet of all of us, because he smelled the can of tuna in my lunchbox.
reworking some things for Hobart and Tin House.
the older i get, the more questions i have. that’s what i’ve noticed. i have questions about how to sew and unsew the binding of a book so that i can have one solid copy of all of my thoughts, make addendums when needed. uncomplicate and complicate my life in the way a synagogue can move its walls to accommodate the growing masses when forgiveness is to be celebrated. i also want to know why my dill plant died. i did everything the woman at the market said. i don’t want to believe it was because the plant, somehow, represented my insides, keeled over in the sun, and just called it quits. i believe it, but i don’t want to, which i also have questions about, but i know not a single person who can offer an unbiased perspective about that kind of thing. my soul, or something like that. i don’t know anyone who knows anything worth mentioning about my soul.
Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk
One paints the beginning
of a certain end.
The other, the end of a