woozybeige

I. FUTURE TENSE

woozybeige:

Yellow is quiet, all thigh and heart bone, a vigil to my hands extended, wraps a ribbon from heel to palm. Yellow of a tripped circuits point on a map As an infallible distant hue, a sunset shade, Your glim radiation at the center of a mass, a heated room too warm, then the quiet shelter from your mothers orange grasp, her woozy howl fluid in the night. She reads your Bible father like an outlet in a busy scene, he a storm unannounced, but yearned for once in your memory his eyes all fishbowl vision, a re-enactment of Othello in dramatic form. Stay hush, says your mother, His shoulders enter the room, heavy sag from barley, a cloud of tobacco and oak, of pure oil, a slick poison. But you have a desk now: You can cross your legs and react all the same under the weight of a heavy wooden board that holds your head and not your feet. Your father says, Do not close the goddamn door, but more than keeping it open you feel its loud swing, its hurrah, way it slams a fist into you, deep in the gut. Leave says your mother, and he screams to tree gaps for a chance at death, and you’re watching from your planked window, the cavity of his back against an unending forest, and your mother is a woozy howl. The empty feed bowl for the horse at dusk, nature’s greedy reckoning with the sun. all gray, all shaded black. Your traced expanse, door-to-door: it’s showing. Coffee to the brim, your deep growl a husk of past – no maybe future – tense, like the ache of muscle in your elbow’s wrong angle: rest your knees. Thumbtacked versions of your line of thought: he the center; shouldered man. A free oak – no maybe maple – fallen as a shrine. Branches align into retraced drafts of kitchen glances and your mother’s howl.

i can’t really write poetry today and i feel uncomfortable everywhere i am that i wasn’t before, but not particularly anxious. the front desk person keeps trying to talk to me and i don’t know how to say that i don’t want to talk so im smiling and nodding a lot

bzzbzzwhrrlclick

Ufo for Sleeping in the Car

unknowmenclature:

This feeling is
a pool of paper cranes kneeling
lengthwise across your face, wishing
for mechanical parts,
fingers that could lift buildings
and wake up with a little less
misc. and etc. on the mind.
Your knees resketch a
scene of bodies in the trunk and
mine remember prayer,
this car a nighttime flower pot for spines
and arms ivy-strong, searching for something
less temporary than laundry warmth.