Blossom (Caribou)

My body

my soul is the sea

endless

birds

float

above me

roll over

see myself walking

with fear

look down again

realizing

it isn't my reality

a bird

falls

on the floor

and i'm really

really

confused

roast bird for supper

jug of wine

feeling spectacular

take a dip

inside the ocean

a shooting star

a cosmic knife

drifting aimlessly

leaping carelessly

living lovably

listening wildly

the soothing swelling of the sea

i am a savage caw

my body

my soul is the sea

endless

birds

float

above me.

When I Think of Rainbows

I hand her my hand, my throbbing little heart, my soul and my life, I look at her as a beggar would—gimme love, gimme touch, gimme warmth, gimme purpose—and I pluck out my eyeballs, I sip my coffee and I look (just look without any touching) at the crows outside her window. And my feet are cold, but I know she will not warm them, so I smile, and my time is slow. It ceases and I reach out to break the toes off my feet. (It is winter). Mr Snowman. Snowflakes. And I think evil thoughts like sunlight and I want to kill him. My feet hurt. My body hurts. I look away from the window.

The Search for Atonement

II. The Art of Rejuvenation

The last thing I did before going to the toilet was cut off my dick and stick a banana in my anus. Experiencing the most excruciating pain I vomited all over the mirror before reaching the toilet. The colorful vomit was like a drawing I did of myself in kindergarten—so innocent and pure.

I. Insomnia

I woke up at three in the morning depressed, wrote a poem, lit a candle, took a leak, shaved, smoked a few cigarettes and laid down and stared recklessly into oblivion.

Drab Words

Drab words dribble down my mouth like driblets onto paper into indelible thoughts and as they fall I become my own deity.

Drab words:

A housefly hums middle octave, key of F.

Race is the canvas of impression.

A heliotrope turns toward the sun.

Formal is normal.

Deepest

Go deep, fuck, lose, converge, purge, break, sweat tears rich with love, burn mother fucker burn, climb mother fucker climb, span the entire mountain range, cut the mountaintop if it doesn't please you, cut your throat, sing songs, burn, shed tears of joy, burn, rise, ember, speak your mind, slice your heart, make a wish, smile and fade out.

O Captain! My Captain!

Every day is an adventure—it's your story. The day unfolds how you see fit. It does this because you are the writer—you are bold, you are strong, you are kind and you are gentle. You are the writer—you are the captain.

Put wildflowers along the decks and destroy the stop button on that ol' record player. Fall back. Order your comrades to do the same, order them to fall back. Order them to take in that endless ocean before them, order them to take it in.

Now breathe, breathe, breathe—it's all yours.

Vintage (Rearranging the Stars)

It’s funny, a star missing its step, forgetting its part in the night, constellating incorrectly. And yet it still feels so utterly complete as I trace its passage across the sky. I examine its patterns, the mother bear and her son and charming little Venus. I begin to laugh. I begin to laugh at all this. I bite my fingers and lick the silver from the cut. I think about the planets orbiting one another, aligning themselves to their own rhythms, as I sway to mine. And I am satisfied when we undulate in unison, and I am more courageous with each sway and I am more merry until I come apart. My shame putters toward the light crowning the cluster. And what was once funny is now holy until a new star misses its step, forgets its part in the night, constellates incorrectly.