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Somebody Wrote This Shit?
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who else read The Return of Martin Guerre in HS and has been obsessed ever since
The Return of Pansette
his name was war, your holiness, and I
took him at his word. they took his leg
at st quentin, and I held his hand
until the bloody work was done. he swore
he'd never stoop to till a field again.
when last I saw him he had carved a cross
into the birchwood lashed below his knee.
in spain before the storm we drank our fill
and martin, always furtive, spoke of home
in terms I recognized. we southern franks
must watch each other's backs; in flanders I
drove my spear into a flemish boy
no older than myself because I saw
his club raised up as if to strike martin.
his son was 2, or close enough to that
when martin left with no intent to see
his wife again - my love, avert your eyes -
he did not hate her but he did not care
to face his father. I could empathize.
my father was the first to call me weak,
fat, and gluttonous; an unfit heir.
can I be blamed, bertrande, for wanting this
domesticity to never end?
it did not feel like lying, not to you
or to our daughter, nor to the boy, my son
in everything but blood. he never knew
the true martin, and would never have loved
the man I knew before I took his name.
your holiness, I know I stand condemned
before this parlement, and maybe god.
naively I assumed the trade was fair:
one Guerre would serve the lord, and one came home
to cherish that which he had left behind.
as if ordained by god above, I felt
I was no fraud - I just was not myself.
I soon will hang, and thus you must admit
there is nothing I'd gain from lying now,
so believe me: it was in good faith
that I contested my new father's will.
my uncle - yes, I know that you object
to being called my father's brother. well,
you sound just like him when you spit my name.
I beg the mercy of the court to rule
that when I hang the children won't be home.
martin, if there was truth to all our talks
and in old soldiers' solidarity -
forgive your wife, and save your ire for
our uncle, he who mocked my appetite
and yet has proven hungriest of all.
I cannot dodge the gallows I have earned,
but I refuse to die on false pretense.
my uncle there will profit from my fall,
and martin? I suspect will leave again.
you all refuse to look me in the face
from shame, perhaps, or maybe out of fear
that you would recognize the man you saw.
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The Return of Pansette
his name was war, your holiness, and I
took him at his word. they took his leg
at st quentin, and I held his hand
until the bloody work was done. he swore
he'd never stoop to till a field again.
when last I saw him he had carved a cross
into the birchwood lashed below his knee.
in spain before the storm we drank our fill
and martin, always furtive, spoke of home
in terms I recognized. we southern franks
must watch each other's backs; in flanders I
drove my spear into a flemish boy
no older than myself because I saw
his club raised up as if to strike martin.
his son was 2, or close enough to that
when martin left with no intent to see
his wife again - my love, avert your eyes -
he did not hate her but he did not care
to face his father. I could empathize.
my father was the first to call me weak,
fat, and gluttonous; an unfit heir.
can I be blamed, bertrande, for wanting this
domesticity to never end?
it did not feel like lying, not to you
or to our daughter, nor to the boy, my son
in everything but blood. he never knew
the true martin, and would never have loved
the man I knew before I took his name.
your holiness, I know I stand condemned
before this parlement, and maybe god.
naively I assumed the trade was fair:
one Guerre would serve the lord, and one came home
to cherish that which he had left behind.
as if ordained by god above, I felt
I was no fraud - I just was not myself.
I soon will hang, and thus you must admit
there is nothing I'd gain from lying now,
so believe me: it was in good faith
that I contested my new father's will.
my uncle - yes, I know that you object
to being called my father's brother. well,
you sound just like him when you spit my name.
I beg the mercy of the court to rule
that when I hang the children won't be home.
martin, if there was truth to all our talks
and in old soldiers' solidarity -
forgive your wife, and save your ire for
our uncle, he who mocked my appetite
and yet has proven hungriest of all.
I cannot dodge the gallows I have earned,
but I refuse to die on false pretense.
my uncle there will profit from my fall,
and martin? I suspect will leave again.
you all refuse to look me in the face
from shame, perhaps, or maybe out of fear
that you would recognize the man you saw.
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sin and bread bob downriver
ducks peck
at pinched challah
shreds. congregant
children, their parents
davening into murmurs,
dip their toes in riverwater, such
ripples
disturb the waterbirds' feast
no church or faithful honor judas' lips
his love more cruel than
penetrating spear or cross to bear
a hand upon the lathe
which sculpted god
carving divinity into driftwood
a kiss to crucifixion in a breath
we hear that judas loved and christ was kind
rivers
I'm sure
understand neither
as I reach back to throw
what crumbs I hold
the river whispers wordless:
chesed, calm
it cannot cleanse
that which carries no stain
the river's covenant is only
this
it will not wash our sins away to sea
it cannot love us
and must not be kind
Tishrei
and levies both are overrun
the Nile and the flood
familiar tastes
each alike inside my Kiddush cup
both souls and soil drown
and are renewed
[they tried to kill us
we survived
let's eat]
broken fast
as all the young in haste
shed ties, keep kippot
muddy leather shoes
the riverbed releases slowly still
meandering, I see my answer here
forgiveness
is not for our god to grant
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we will not live to see the end of days
and I for one am grateful, not afraid
but maybe we can push them far away
since it's too late to do much but delay
no, obligation is not debt you pay
there is no interest or layaway
instead you must just think "what's here today
will die. no trees endure; there is no shade
nor remnant of the branches where we played."
tikkun without olam is unfired clay
and molds you into all your selfish shapes.
you cannot heal the world yet keep your pain
but neither can 'self-care' keep loss at bay
do not despair - I swear, we have our ways
there is no prison standing that wont break
as long as all the people join the fray
what must be done? "in minecraft," as they say
we fight on til there's no more cops to hang
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the Nile
and the flood
the same
taste in my kiddush cup
sin and bread bob downriver
ducks peck
at pinched challah
shreds. congregant
children, their parents
davening into murmurs,
dip their toes in riverwater
ripples
disturb the waterbirds' feast
and regret follows
ebb, bend, flow until the dam
what remains, soaked through, must sink
I wonder
have they have made enough deserts
for peace to last
til careening currents
regretting overmuch the waterlogged
prayers
defy the banks and levies
drown souls and soil
a shared mercy
in churches they don't honor judas' lips
his love more cruel than
penetrating spear or cross to bear
I wonder what it means to shape a god
carving divinity into driftwood
crucifixion from a kiss
it's not so simple making
one whole
we hear that judas loved and christ was kind
the river understands neither
broken fast
as all the youngest
shed ties, keep kippot
I no longer wonder
why the riverbed mud holds so fast
as I step away and forward
forgiveness
is not our god's to grant
the river's covenant is only
this
it will not wash our sins to sea
it cannot love us
and must not be kind
it is only that
as I reach back to throw
what crumbs I hold
the river murmurs
chesed, calm
it cannot cleanse
what bears no stain
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MY BEST INTENTIONS//MAKE FOR SORRY ROADS//TO HELL OR ANYWHERE ELSE I’VE EVER LIVED
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fight me in the ocean until one or both of us drowns
should be so lucky we
cling like spent swimmers on a jagged pressure
point, damnation your art
sting heath and take to root while you draw breath
and forest twist and root in rot your bones
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this is internet poetry or something
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nah
this is internet poetry or something
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I'll be there when the bubble pops/when the fakes charm snakes in their trouble spots/with a market crash value in my secret stash/tripped-out worship in the acid Mass/career messiah flip the tables/all-in 22 blackjack the savior/pontificate Pilate pushing votes/he burns the poor but whole-grain oats/steel-cut wheat/eye-cut diamond/Simon says would you please kill Simon/twister, blisters, on the left foot blue/blood flow titrate see it through when the muckedy-mucks give up giving a fuck/hoi polloi preachers start stringing em up/moral's abhorrent but cogent enough/no need to smell blood when you're making a cuff three witches/call em back/prophecies/take me off my track/three witches/Banquo's ghost/see him at the feast and make him make a toast I slam doors on the three little pigs/only just tryna hide from the wolves in my digs/god opens a window and lets the chill in/pneumonia is for the children/malaria steeps into my bones/quinine lives and I head back home/catatonic fill my glass/I pass tipsy way too fast/plateau asshole call me steppes/see Genghis Khan played by Johnny Depp/pirate my way into their hidden places/when you finally arrive/no shoelaces/push-button orderlies with bruise-blue skin/gunslick camerashy check you in/voicemail morning when you can't feel real/Scottish King coppers on patrol no deal
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you hit like panic
migraine
I feign sobriety but
solar plexus too tight every halogen sun pulse
too bright twin blots of cataract
light jagged edges of thought
spent swimmer drowning not waving
mouth clings, dry, not yet heaving
hands freeze numb
scattered pills for taking
the wave crests crash down
broken point
breathe unsteady drunk on
choking longer
unsteady hands a hit
like no other
I know what I can handle
stretch one slip further
blink twice and there's miles gone
the wrong-lane wander
I feign sobriety but
you hit like self-hate
migraine
eyes bolt down with fingers
pressure patterns scatter
what
I meant to say something here
red-eyed by morning pouring rain
red sand soaked and cloying
you blank-slate like
and the race's off
grand prize to sleep at night
a place to stop
a place to break off what you're breaking off
the barometric pressure
of your basic talk brain
chemistry the pills can act now
I wont mind if
their rush kills the hit
there's too much high for one
I can read the blood stutt-
er-step in my veins
lungs working overtime only one-way
me with my self-hate to spare
panic thrusts in my eye
my blind migraine sight
in this dark you look
as phantom as any
in this light you look
wincing with the pulse
of the halogen bulbs
hands bandaged half from
smashing the buzz
half from hitting me once
more time alone with the drug
you hit me like
panic migraine self-hate
contortion
same paths I carve myself
for the troubled heart-rate
and the rush
and the pain
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there are ppl who are memories there are ppl who weren't even there ppl who weren't even there ppl who didn't gut-jump with a used VW didn't snub that nose in tree-copse powder and there are ppl who are memories ppl with the same sweater you last smelled ppl who don't know the color is wrong the fabric insufficiently coarse, no tears crossing it they were not there. there are ppl who were memories like: a wine-bar waitress in black like: glimpses of faces that flit on trains headed back to the depot commuter haze and cell service there are memories in these ppl but our looks lack a lingua franca and they are bundled in Now that I can't feel Now that shivers and I remember there were ppl in those memories who lost to a fresher moment there are people in these memories whose eyes I cannot recall no matter how long I become them
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i would like to be fulfille
d it is not in me
not in
my me not in me to be unafraid
exorcise writ quiet and carve
of me a totem hollow
bone to fly to melt I swell
with snakeskin bloat confession etch a grace i
nto me a second holiness worth the first
and fill it in with concrete
praise I'll
sink
without your help
wax fins and swallow whole
the ocean but I
would like to be fulfille
d
I would like
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i lack a tradition of repentance
can’t confess if you never stop sinning but
there’s gas for boston and back
if you keep arms and legs grounded at all times
no sweat when you have enough practice
getting out gets easy when the going gets tough
i break further down and the tough get going leave a man on the ground
sound the alarms now this
is why we set the clocks back
to hours when the doors stay locked why
we rhythm our steps and dodge
back-break
cracks
there has to be a safer messiah
a better hobby then immolation by proxy
the sum total of wandering eyes
simmering slack out the causal loop
i trained with the best
in the business of never taking
it standing
decline riders in self-serve purgatory
too little invested to reflill the gordian
knot trust me on this one
addictive personality doesnt half
cover it so I drive down
low raincover and slick tires
end the story where it ends
lifting puzzle pieces stumbledrunk and bleeding
holy water
no
I don’t have a drinking problem
I just have sorrows to drown and they’re
strong
swimmers
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it is laid out in the greek
I
have
mADE
a
nest
of grief
and there is n
nothing they
cou,ld havedone
I
rush tothe end\ me I got
ahead of myself
everysingle
thing is
ten uo us
I will not dance
up on
that mountain I will
not dance assoberas t his
dressing down
my mother's
falsehood I dance
in dressageg g
gown
abridged my ride a bride abridged a ride a long along a bridge the canter
they ain't got
no rhythm
HEARTBEATsoul is in
the seat of rhythmbeatbeat
on the hill
I was a lion
on the tree/topbent and sheer
they coul
d see up my mother
sdress my legs in sheer
eyepeck bird
alone
at that height I can' t see it
,,
dad your tooth looks
ragged night now
in the s0il father tell
it to me iin my myyther's dressing gown I I
where sow my father's mantel greww the li
on lion lion's mane on
and buriedin
that den nest in
bed down in ym nest
of grIEf mother
join me
t
the trophy and the mantelpiece
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in the first place
--and this was the big shame
--he groped like a frat brother
. you'd not think making the sun rise
took less dexterity than
removing a bra. he
was hungry, too
fast to press me to the
altar
to elbow wide my legs,
undo
his belt. I pressed my knees
and he sighed
moaned
carried on. I confess (not repent)
I pressed on him
pushed him hard. he tried to buy me;
if I wanted a castle he'd have given me
Buckingham.
I have never wanted a castle. just
to take it further,
stretch my story. he told me
I could see everything
fore and aft
if only I'd let him come aboard
(he was mad
for wordplay.
and me). I wanted
the prenup, half up front,
maybe just fore; he
offered the full package.
but he told me he
“forgot”
a rubber.
the original Achilles heel?
no different
from a rutting boy.
you're not so smooth
, Apollo sonny
, not so smooth as all that.
I said he could pull
out, but I had to see first
. he kissed my eyelids
--no romantic here
--and I Knew
too late. of course
he'd get the last laugh;
what else are
gods good
for? but I wasn't
settling down with him. too dim
a bulb in too large a lamp
for my taste. told him I'd slip
into something
more comfortable.
I didn't lie (
I never do).
the cab home was real
comfortable. so was seeing it
laid out in front of me,
everything there was to be.
you've never had such
dreams
as I did that night.
but blue-balled Phoebus--
not having his way
with me--had a will
to wreak. when I woke
I felt it come
true. the morning after's
bitter pill. that's when
they all stopped listening,
and I couldn't
stop
talking.
turns out
there's not enough future in one girl
turns out
you can stretch too thin
turns out
nobody likes it when
you tell the wrong truths
but some things must be
said. I say them.
can't not
I wish
I could.
there's comfort (cold
) in knowing,
because I've seen it, the end
comes for Paean
anyways.
and it's a good one
so when eighty-odd siblings spit
as I pass, I have to smile.
the brightest day's sun still sets.
if the fucker had
a Trojan
it wouldn't have to be this way.
Cassandra (or The Divine is a Poor Bedfellow)
written in homage to margaret atwood's helen of troy does countertop dancing
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call them what they are
not
errors in the code
nor
features in the bug
we
hold tight to the laws
they
slip from easy
comprehension
it's too simple
blame the system
both of us have made mistakes
those lapses
we pass disastrous
the exhumation of past
correctives
Aesop and the moral
mid-story
no denouement this
Revelations comes
later after
baptism and good shit
helps to miss
it the space
definitionally empty
this space intentionally
left
unfulfilled
better ask forgiveness
from permission
stretched thin and
strung out
substitute worse
drugs for better
people
withdraw
and crave the
next hit
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