september 2009

starved of flesh

i am becoming a monument of
constantly procreating osteoblasts,
stacking and clustering and thickening into walls and rods
long lines and curves of off-white infrastructure–
great dirty-colored tunnels where marrow midwifes birth erythrocytes
bathed in hemoglobin afterbirth, one after another.

by now the population per capita
should have reached maximum levels–
enough to warrant mandatory executions
(in the form of T-cell attacks),
but this nation’s leader is greedy.

he wants more traffic on the venal highways,
more round red businessmen;
he wants more neural CEOs talking too loudly
on synaptic cell phones– and really, if any more of them get work
those annoying Nokia PTT phones will amass multimillion dollar profits
on this one body-country alone.

i think he likes that idea.

he’s a rapacious and ruthless leader
and everyone hates and loves him in equal measure;
they built him this monument to reside in,
and even gave it a lovely dusky melanocyte finish
that glows golden in sunlight.
(i believe you might go so far as to call it a sort of epidermal pyrite.)

i am becoming a monument
to the efficiency of capillary toll booths,
of fertile dermal fields tilled by muscle cell farmers;

i am a statue to commemorate the imperfect perfection that is humanity,
and here i stand.


not if you were the last chiiildd on earth

i. in lieu of earlier writings

it doesn’t even really BEGIN to explain you and me, but it starts to.

all of that stuff is true, and I do wonder how you could imagine that i can manage to put you, mr. d. chiiildd, into one tiny little package when you’re a thousand and a few millions besides.

ii. dear christ:
fuck you for thinking i can shrink-wrap the universe.
love, epi.


iii. i love you like kanye west lo [sorry, epi, and i’m going to let you finish, but my poetry’s better]ves Ego.

iv. it [chiiildd] fits you so much, because you are a child in a way that just isn’t explicable.
you are this little boy with this head full of these gigantic ideas and a heart with massive feelings in it.
little boy humor and older man sadness and in-between joys.
I’m getting emotional. Stop me.
jesus christ.

his response:


and mine:

pain makes me emotional as hell.
when i go to the hospital tomorrow, they better give me fucking painkillers.
i will sleep forever.

his response:

And I will change your sheets.
Roll you to stop bed sores.


every parting of your lips hints
at sleepless nights,
draped in sheets/wrapped in sheer pleasure/
cradled in bliss, shuddering soft from artificial lovers’ caress
(for that is all i can afford, fifteen-dollar disembodied prostitutes
rather than priceless, precious paramour);

remember that first night?
you came to where I lay sleeping awake
you laid your waterlogged fingers
on my paperskin and you sank deep–
you plunged far and out of me you siphoned air,
you stole shapeless breaths–

you crushed my dark ripe berrymouth
under your weight,
squeezed free aching juice,
licked every drop and whispered
“your first kiss”

living rooms

i: sofa

i want to tell you how i long to curl up inside your arms– how i want to write myself upon each line of your body and sign with a flourish (but no i’s dotted with hearts, because even i am not that sentimental).
i want to become absorbed into your story.

ii: armchair

i wish you’d turn to me when stress wends its way between the folds of your clothes, a clever pencil, to draw your shoulders into the intricate of knots. take your guitar, your video games, a plastic pipe that blows bubbles if you like, and come rest against me. i promise that my arms are strong enough to hold you up, and there is enough of me to cushion your aches– if you trust me enough to let yourself fall.

iii: television

behind the crimson shutters of my eyelids sometimes i see you:
your funny-looking face, the bump in your nose which i imagine is like your ancestors’ (and i wonder if there were others as tempted to ski hesitant fingertips over the ridge as i am now);

the honey darkness of your eyes,
and your strange mouth.
i wonder about touching the thickness of your hair, and there are enough videoclip-fantasies of tucking my face into your neck at night to rival any library collection.

i think sometimes that i could be in love with you,

iv: coffee table

but perhaps it is only the sheer sharp ache of relief at finally being able to rest my elbows on something more solid than i am. i am not sure.

v: walls/vi: windows

i am composed of heavy plated armor held together by sarcasm hinges over humor mail, but your bizarre humor and refusal to do battle with my demons is rusting the iron. i am afraid to let you see how close you are to touching vulnerable flesh–

to seeing what lies beneath,

vii: door

but i am almost ready to let you in.

come pick me up

you are the historian.
measure me in decades:
one in my bones,
two in the flesh,
four in the crevices of my brain–

you are the cartographer. map me out
on wet sand like the ocean in my dreams.
scale me to the size of a pebble,
because i am only as significant as you make me.

you are the author: tell my story on lined paper
in notebooks with gorgeous covers,
and tell them i lived for moments like these
that i wore my heart on my sleeve,
but that i bunched it up– tell them that
growing up was the hardest problem i ever had to solve.

you are the archaeologist:
dig deep with your bare hands
because you’re too passionate
for tools and technology,
pushing past dank earth,
sleeping worms and coiled secrets to where i lay.

you are the savior, now:
lift me out of here and carry me home.

put me to sleep

because i wasn’t there for your:

because i skipped out on:
your commencement/
your first time/
the last night/
christmas dinner; the baby,
I must give you this last song–
one line/
one word/
(letters in beat up shoeboxes
under the bed on the closet shelf
and the hole in the wall where
your fist made its first mark)
one more time, to sing together

before life goes on/
before the end is near/
before the lights go down
and the show is over. I just wanted

to say goodbye to you and…
well, to us. please

when i press this into your palm,
and close your little fingers over its edges,
though they may slice into your hand print
and become another whorl
new scars to exhibit:

don’t laugh and don’t make jokes
don’t lower your head and don’t look me in the eye
don’t reach for me and
t o u c h           my hand;

just walk away– and remember,
(if you need a bit of solace
or just a kick in the shins–)
you can always sit up
in bed at night and whisper that
“i was her mother”

(even though i’ve told you time and again i’m not a girl,
mommy i love you)