with my palms facing the sky,
I will catch tomorrow for the feather it will be
Almost every day I wake up wishing I could unclip myself from the webbing of my conscience so I wouldn’t have to wash the rope burns off my face.
It has become a struggle to get dressed
in the morning without hating yourself.
In the mirror, you see a sack of fruit,
a loveseat dragged to the curb. You know
this is not true. You know this is plight
of those with mirrors and cloth and legs—
yet, still, you do not want to leave
Have you ever thought about how everything could just be determined by percentages? There’s a 63% chance this message will be too long. There’s a 75% chance you’ll read this within the next 24 hours, and if not, it’ll be far enough in the past to only interest you to reply 30% of the time. There’s a 25% chance I’m trying to win you over with outlandish philosophy. If I am, there may be a 60% chance you’ll lead me on enough to see what entertainment it would bring. There’s a .00000003% chance I’m a space monkey with sky blue fur and an antenna made of weather vanes, the last of his race, looking for other intelligent life to connect with. There’s a 16% chance you’ll get what I’m saying.
I recount how wine-drenched our brains were the nights we stumbled down the streets of manhattan. Whenever the traffic lights turned red, taxi drivers were forced to watch us coordinating our steps on the cross walk like acrobats on a tightrope. We were always careful not to fall too hard because tightropes have ending points, but we were far too invested to turn back now.
My scarf smells like trains.
Leather glossy with touch.
Clean windows tentacled
with dried soap.
A train is not my home,
but it allows me to wake
up next to strangers.
let’s go back to that moment
when you woke up unraveling into a full smile
your heart sprinting
because you were pretty sure last night was real
like a dream willfully entangling itself
into your memory
let’s go back to that
you made all the right choices
said all the right words
whatever caused it to be
lives inside you
and waits for you to reward
what I am saying is let it out
and if you don’t know what
exactly you are meant to let out,
then let everything out
you will thank yourself
I’m wearing a bandaid
a red spot the size of a bird seed
is showing through it
Every painting starts with a dot
Mine came from scraped flesh
I can’t paint worth shit
But I know what it means
to make a sacrifice for art.
We all started from the same place
covered in blood
head first with distortion in our ears
don’t be quick to call it a scream
We were born singing off key
There is paint underneath my bandaid
The kind that doesn’t smell like a headache
already, art has seemed to gestate
like the time you said
this poem ends when I
bring myself joy”
In 2nd grade my class went to a planetarium and this girl who sat near me caressed my chin, which made me develop a crush on her. That year I stuck glow in the dark stars on my bedroom ceiling because it put me back into what I felt at the planetarium- a dark room, a rotund ceiling illuminating with celestial bodies, a girl smearing feelings I’ve never felt before on my chin- and hey, I like glowy shit.
I am excited for them to open the train station stop again. Not because I need it, because I want to see the people that do. Some weekends when the G is running in its hiccupy two-part way, I throw my hands up and go, “Fine!” because everyone hates the G and I feel like the G makes it easy for that to happen (and of all the trains, the G is the one I can picture most as an animate object, an organism that wishes and chooses to fuck up people’s commutes, etc). But on late-night rides from Williamsburg back to my neck of the woods, I like it. Maybe it’s the solidarity I feel with the other passengers for patronizing an inefficient thing, because so much of the rest of our priorities are about the fastest, the latest. Maybe it’s the way the night sky opens up as the G goes above ground and Brooklyn is all lit up. I always look. The other night I realized you could see the Statue of Liberty on the ride. You can see her from right outside my apartment building, too, and connecting the two moments made me feel as if I was on an orbiting disc with her at its center, like when you look up at the sky and spin and it seems like the North star is simply rotating in place.