survival instinct

survival instinct

Painting by Egon Schiele.

 

I am brain-blockaded animal, hand-trap springtime from unkempt body,/ unkempt circuitry ticking ticking ticking inside the flower walls, the murder-garden inside me is just the history, unstopped watches and sundials & we made those too, another trap for ourselves & my history tortures me in linear, the slow tick of the root-cage bars under the trees, I am there in the dark hovels, there in small corners and the gathered realms of my childhood bedroom-woods, the trees blossoming from floorboard and forestry touching ceiling like jumanji, the world cornered me in & curled me into arms, and it is silent

and it tortures me, I alight with innerness and flaming unsafe sanctum-head, boiling inside rivers like the frothing mouth-blood, snapping myself into blankets I, the rigid curl upon bed-grasses have no light in canopies, the corners are haunted and reaching for me, I
cannot stand the structure without the open but the vastness precludes me from walking into it, myself I
will lose it, myself I will conjure it, myself is vapor and these are winds and cages and neither can I
fit, myself is choking into the back of Mormon temples, unfit for world but fit for robes and I
could have chose their ring of invisibility, all wraiths of adulthood disappearing from sight there it was choose the right or nothing, god closing in and providing steps for suffering & I
walked out, donut-instinct in hand, I led into temptation by father and cookies into screaming over thumb-pain on church entrance floor to a confirmation, at which I
smelled the root-bars and ran again, smelled the clean air and new god & wandered back into similar-aged towers of worship & worn out stairways like tread-down paths in imagination-wilds, tread-down clock hands in cloud-time, tread-down animals in human form, beaten into boxes by fear of wilderness inside & out & I
stammered
is there/ room for a wraith in this mind-nook / is it a room-room and will I come to fear it too / is / is it a canyon and will I hide in it until suddenly wide is narrow and bottom closes in and / I cannot / breathe anymore here / I / I / came up for air / middle of a life-ocean / amphibian-pain still phantom & haunting / how the earth is just like oxygen-cage/ maybe / I could remain if instinct allows
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land of stagnant wasps

there is violence in trumpet strings, cut deep in the brass-hands / we are pushing air into their /voices; melodic & humming out over / grass isles & the glow in our sky is / heavy with strong-purple clutching rain that climbs back into clouds there / is vapor & honey in your chapstick-touched words pressing me / into / corners and I / like the pressing hands in lead-touch; no-subtlety interrogation tongues tactically dancing around & what / was violence in the strings is quiet coming in heaves now, tranquil & slithering / between our ears, into the old paths wrung by the wasps / carrying still / on the cups and comfortable resting on /

hands & ankles & fingertips & rust & wasp-children, slithering / into canals upon kayaks and marketplaces in old jewels, land / full of waltzing bees & striped creatures /

lying in the vibrations of the bells & you & me bursting-spell in

cocoon body guarding tender-guts; caught / me violent // handled like / cautious kind of choke-hold; hand-hold like / whispers between tree-leaf palms / speaking life into uncut stems, we are / vital-signing into a rib-jail, lucid & inescapable, incomplete / as the excavation of catacombs under / the church, we / are ancient bones bubbling to the surface & wasps / in the night, // children of hornets / with lips of fire and broiling memories / so song-crest violent, un-erasable & full / of kind bruises, forest-cities of clasped hands, self-hearth thoughts / that / we never will forget.

11/30 [perfectionist-ism]

& eating the quiet,

I roll in splinters, kitchen desk scrapes on

my sister’s fingers like something brought home,

knuckles

dirt-filled and cavernous rapping  out Nirvana on

suburban tables, spoons of spilled milk dancing

on television–that movie Fantasia & songs’ hypnotic

writhing through hung & broken silence from bubbling

air conditioner ventilator,

swooning in the depths, & it is the first time he

shows us weak, shows us

imperfect & bedridden by a bee-sting-allergy

this is

metaphor of mistaken weakness sprouting through

perfection-ground crack

that has defined my childhood,

shown the covers & how

perfect smothers

perfect teaches and guides but forgets

to hold,

congratulate & clutch & fail

over

examples like plane and robot-arm pilots of brains

sinking in sky, sinking with clear air

pushing off through bike-race finish lines, sobbing from

pushing in

private school hallways & soccer grass

breathless & streaming through the hills,

stampeding spikes in churning cold mud & heels,

fake injuries & evading failure at

all costs,

shoving all in sugar-hungry mouths like old-fashioned sundae

rotting in heaves,

silent in classrooms

hollowed out &

still

afraid of mistakes

[9/30] end (iii)

iii.

words like entrail nebulae–buying

time and waking in the sky–sputtering out the thoughts

and grips on the plane seat handle, bump-death & all

gyroscopic drops from earth-ceiling, upside below &

scared of eye, scared of mirror, scared to blink between

heart beat on tuesday, fear of machines, fear of gym workout too long

& heart rate & fear from passing out on a track

legs still sprawling, spinning forward & clogging

lanes with air in the hand-runner that picked you up

you could finally imagine it fully, a

trinket-fragile,

impermanent thing.

7/30 [end]

i.

bite the cheeksides into rot &

turn hands as they go limp, legs festering in

pillows and damp jeans & sweat driven from the brain-work raining

from hair-forest,

weak & molting on ground; creaking of knee in dusk

walking to feel like alone, like imagine what it was

to breathe in another body

understand thoughts of hives buzzing around me,

tensions in the air space waiting above my head,

caterpillar like the handles of gates in ice-winter

chrysalis of skin and blood,

growing around bone

holding me close