i have undressed a thousand times
but i still do not know myself naked
why should i, when all i have done
is plaster my image on to a canvas too good
for the likes of my oozing pores
i could scrub out all that is earthly within me
and i’d still wake with soft dirt in my mouth
bound to places, times, memories, maggots
so what is id, if not a tooth rotting precisely where it should
gyrating against the pelvis of ignorantia
i thrust the impressions i have of myself
underneath fervent currents
and carry on,
dirt in my cavities,
dust in my eyes.
hey if the stars were aligned
in ascending order of righteousness,
and if my birth chart wasn’t a nightmare,
do you think we could hold hands
and gaze up at them?
maybe kiss a little?
if i were squeezed out through the vagina again
and plonked into the hands of fortune,
do you think maybe we could plan things together?
maybe even dream of it?
Rumi said that there is a meadow
where a meeting is destined,
i wonder if that place is meant for us.
oh but wait,
excuse me sir,
in this meadow,
is the grass mowed evenly?
is there a clean place to sit?
will there be time for us at all?
i’d look down at heaven
when I’m done being a sick
what is above heaven
winds and storms of the invalids,
but not a sign of shame
no gorgeous mask.
It’s so strange that the people I’m most comfortable with also make me feel like they’re going to go away from me at any given moment. They make time feel like a vortex that they like to edge closer and closer to just to keep me on my toes, no, to keep my heart pounding in my mouth. It’s an existential game. “How Long Will It Be Until She Stops Dreading?”