On Being Nice, On Being Blue
Time moves through skin, makes wrinkles and waves. Where there is
time
there is the removal of entire parts,
the removal of Womb like House
What is the meaning of anguish?
Time is traumatic; I am mourning its loss, always.
I am with girlfriend, naked, queer porn, vibrators, openmouths
blow jobs between women
are a thing.
When Dad calls.
Another death or dearth of something a lacking or a burning or a morning. I mark my love on
flesh; three parts for each suicide since the election.
Anomie, alienation. Homo Faber is Human The Barely Alive.
I say, at the dog park,
Boy how about that whole mortality thing huh?
The Doberman and the Labradoodle
they paw at their social media profiles.
They bark with teeth snarling, fangs
I want to hold Child
but the rest of your parts will fall out in pieces, they say. Because I am not nice, you say. “Mama is not nice!” you say.
I am not nice.
(If I ever lose you, I will walk out the door and I will start running; I will run until my breath floods out of me for good, for keeps, for always).
Compulsive ideations, fetishes with time, the solitary sacrifice of numbness, of never again having to torture one’s self with the possibility
that it’s all impermanent.
Your body in the patina of Belly, now toxic; generations, swaddled in sea,
bye bye, you say.
Body cannot bear
fruit
It cannot hold on to sadness
bye, bye, it says, parts pulled out by Robot.
a sea of grief is not a proscenium, a man who wails is not a dancing bear
Papa bake birthday cake for Baby
in the shape of Uterus
replace the stuff of body with the stuff of sugar
cut disease out with cookie cutter
throw away unused parts or feed it to the dogs for all I care.
Three candles on a pink cake– or perhaps it is three hundred or three million, who knows– you have only pink things: pink pants, pink shirts, pink tutus, pink shoes. I tell you, pink is powerful. I say,
Not everyone has a pink pussy. I tell you the names of body parts.
You are thoughtful, raw, fragile.
You ask to play but I always say
Hang on hang on hang on
In the basement of House ghosts make stew in housedresses timeworn soiled wallpaper the ends curl all up
feral children there
knives in little hands
smiles
pages of an unfinished manuscript
settle,
the concrete uproots and there are blossoms
in the spaces of didacticism and profanity
and there is Child there.
And Child is blue and blue is
time.
About the Author
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